


we go home together

by bosbie, knitsforthetrail, roadhouses



Category: Yuri!!! on Ice (Anime)
Genre: Adventure, Alternate Universe - Fantasy, Alternate Universe - Medieval, Dragons, Falling In Love, First Meetings, Fluff and Angst, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Magic, Noble Yuuri, POV Victor Nikiforov, Sorcerer Victor, bigbangonice2018, kinda sorta DnD, mafia
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-23
Updated: 2018-02-23
Packaged: 2019-03-22 20:00:17
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 24,954
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13771461
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bosbie/pseuds/bosbie, https://archiveofourown.org/users/knitsforthetrail/pseuds/knitsforthetrail, https://archiveofourown.org/users/roadhouses/pseuds/roadhouses
Summary: Mari is missing, presumably kidnapped by trolls. Yuuri sets out to find her with the help of a reclusive sorcerer whose glory days are behind him. They get imprisoned by a rogue state, fight the mob, kill a dragon, and make friends along the way.In which Yuuri is a noble from a fallen family who’s braver than he gives himself credit for, Mari isn’t a damsel in distress, and Victor is an immortal who’s lonely until he’s not.





	we go home together

**Author's Note:**

> kinda sorta dnd au, featuring human fighter yuuri and aasimar sorcerer victor. no knowledge of dnd needed, as the inspiration taken from it is featured only in (very slight reference to) classes/races and language. for sake of plot aasimars are a rare immortal race, i kno they’re neither of those things dont @ me
> 
> this is set in a fantasy world that doesn’t take itself seriously. rules are kept vague and a magic system is referenced but not explained nor fleshed out, as this is a oneshot that’s central focus is more on characters than setting 
> 
> title from the mount kimbie/james blake song of the [same name](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Q-7wzb7sRg8/). very beautiful, pls check it out it’s very underrated
> 
> written for the big bang!!! on ice
> 
> tysm to [@roadhouss](https://roadhouss.tumblr.com/) and [@knitsforthetrail](https://knitsforthetrail.tumblr.com/) for being my artists for this event!! art: still pending

 

Victor's house is what most would deem as isolated, surrounded by the trees that make up a quaint wood he'd bumped into the first half of last century. The nearest village is a moderately sized conglomerate of peasants and lower-class nobles and is a good three hour walk away, a walk that consists of both less-travelled roads and sentient trees in various degrees of benevolence.

Both of which would be a problem if Victor didn’t have the useful ability of portal-making; whenever he needs a quick grocery trip or the comfort of another’s body, he can portal his needs here or portal himself there. He does this often enough that most villagers know his face, even sort of worship him as a village protector because of his flamboyant use of magic and eternal youth. Not the look he’s been trying to go for, but what can you do.

So no, Victor isn't as bothered with his self-inflicted seclusion as he probably should be. In fact, he quite enjoys the calming atmosphere nature brings, something he wouldn't have with neighbors around. People in need of his services can just walk, and if they really need him they'd take the risk and cross the woods to request his help. It’s a “risk” because, supposedly, the woods he resides in is cursed. Or, at least, many people have died in it.

Also the sentient trees. That might be a factor. But that's besides the point.

Victor isn’t lonely. He really isn’t. He’s respected and he’s content. He chose this for himself and the past century of quiet has been good to him. It’s the most peaceful century of life he’s lived.

No one can hurt him if he doesn’t let anyone in.

He’s fine.

 

\-----

 

Someone knocks on his door. Victor can tell a lot about a person by the way they knock. Many of his successful clients have knocks that are firm, and they always seem to carry that confidence on their shoulders. Pesky wood elves who love to ding-dong-ditch (or rather knock-knock-ditch, as Victor does not have a doorbell) usually do so with a sharp, rhythmic beat, similar to the jaunty music Victor sometimes hears during the late evenings. Christophe, a young warlock Victor has kept dearly close to him over the past couple of decades, never bothers to knock when he visits, preferring to barge in while complaining about the long walk through the cursed woods he must take.

This knock is revealing. It’s lingering, uncertain. A client, most likely. Because of the wood’s reputation, clients are few and hard to come by. Those who do take the perilous journey always pay handsomely, for their needs are usually worth the risk of death.

He opens the door to find someone standing at the foot of his home’s front entrance, and Victor is immediately struck by the man’s beauty. He has hair the color of unmined iron and eyes that remind Victor of lazy strolls in the woods, accompanied only by the sounds of leaves rustling with the breeze and his own breathing. The man’s stance — feet shoulder-width apart, chin up, back straight — is as telling of his occupation as the quiver strapped to his back and the furrowed slant of his brow. He is a warrior. And an adept one at that, with how successful he was in his venture into Victor's woods.

He is also a client. Victor smiles, professional and inviting.

“You’re the sorcerer of the village north here?” the man asks, the warm texture of his voice shooting a thrill down Victor's spine.

“I guess,” Victor says. While never officially earning the title, he’s been here long enough for his reputation to warrant that belief. “And you are?”

“Yuuri. Yuuri Katsuki,” the man says.

Ah, a Katsuki. Victor is familiar with that surname. Once a powerful and respected higher-noble family, their prestige and wealth took a turn for the worse when one of them decided to take part of an unsuccessful coup in effort to usurp the royal family of Hasetsu. This was nearly two hundred years ago, and the surviving members of the family are nobles now only by name and not by lifestyle nor social standing.

But now isn’t the time to think about fallen nobility. “It’s a pleasure,” he says, graciously letting him inside. “I am Victor.”

“Just Victor?”

“Just Victor,” he says. “You’ve come here for my services?” With a raise of a finger, the door closes behind Yuuri. Victor might be showing off.

“Yeah,” Yuuri confirms, seeming impressed at the small show of power. Victor preens. “You should put some signs out,” he then suggests, like the thought has been on his mind for some time. “It took me a week to find a reliable source of directions to your residence. Or, and this is just a suggestion — you could relocate to somewhere more, um. Less cursed.”

“It weeds out the less devoted clientele,” is Victor's answer. “And, contrary to popular belief, the woods aren’t cursed.” For the couple of generations Victor has lived here, he has never felt the telltale signs of a curse from his woods; instead of a consistent, creeping dread, he instead senses a content peace throughout the woods’ entire land, common in places an ancient god has grown fond of and has given their blessing.

But when the rumours started to grow, he never said anything to refute it. Some may call it fear mongering, but Victor likes to see it as maintaining an image.

“A tree tried to eat me,” Yuuri reports.

“Ah. Well. You were just unlucky enough to have crossed paths with one of the unkind ones.”

“‘Unkind ones’,” Yuuri repeats, unimpressed. The nervous hunch of his shoulders is already pulling downwards to a more natural slope, which was Victor’s plan from the start. “So there are such things as ‘kind’ trees around these parts?”

“Or course there are,” Victor answers, matter-of-fact. “For every mean thing there must be a nice thing. If not, the entire realm would be as unbalanced as a seesaw with a kobold on one end and a goliath on the other.”

“I’ve never thought about thinking about anything that way.”

“Well, don’t start now,” Victor says. “Anyways, there might be some dangerous creatures in it, but the woods themselves are not cursed. So, Yuuri Katsuki, what can I help you with?”

After taking a moment to recover from the conversational whiplash Victor has caused by his abrupt topic change, Yuuri simply says, “My sister.” That phrase alone is filled with so much warmth — towards the person in question, Victor reckons — it’s nearly unbelievable. “I’m looking for my sister. I’m wondering if you can help me? Track my sister? With your, your sorcerer powers. I’ll pay.”

“I can do that.” Victor sits down on one of the chairs of his dining room table and beckons Yuuri to sit on the chair opposite. When he does so, he says, “I do payment up front,” and wriggles his fingers greedily at Yuuri.

With an exasperated eye roll at Victor's childish display of avarice, Yuuri obliges and takes a small coin pouch from the beat-up satchel he has slung over his shoulder. Victor unties it and finds a small yet reasonable amount of gold in it. Unexpected, considering the slump Victor knows the Katsukis have been in for the past hundred and ninety years.

“This will do,” he informs Yuuri. Usually he'd ask for more, much more, but today he feels generous.

He then begins to ask the usual line of questioning for a tracking. “Do you have something I can track her with?”

“Yeah.” He pulls something from his satchel again. It’s a bullwhip, well-worn but well-kept, the braided leather beautiful in its simplicity. “This is hers. I found it, and that’s when I knew she wasn’t out for an extended vacation. She’d never go anywhere without it.”

Yuuri hands it to Victor and Victor takes it, running a finger down its bolster. “And how long has she been missing?”

“I mean, she’s an adult, she doesn't need to report to me whenever she heads out, but. I don’t know. A couple of days, maybe?”

Victor nods and asks, “What’s her name?”

“Mari.” Yuuri’s smile is soft, and his eyes melt with fondness at the name. Victor gets a bit weak at the knees.

“Mari,” Victor echos. When Yuuri nods, he says, “Well, let’s find her, then.” He grips the coiled whip in his hands and closes his eyes, letting the magic that runs through his veins take him where it'll take him.

“Ah,” he says a few moments later, and he opens his eyes to look at Yuuri sympathetically.

“What is it?” Yuuri asks. His voice rises in panic when Victor doesn’t answer fast enough. “Is she okay?”

“From what I can tell, she’s alive and well.” The tips of his fingers fiddle with the whip before handing it back to Yuuri’s awaiting hands. Despite the situation Victor can’t help but appreciate those hands, calloused and weathered; a working man’s hands, his long fingers wrapping around the whip’s handle with an easy tenderness. He wonders what it would be like to have those fingers trace his skin.

Damn, it’s way too early to be waxing poetic about a stranger’s _hands._ Victor needs to get out more.

“She’s not hurt,” Victor continues, “but what I saw...she’s in troll territory.”

“ _Trolls?”_ Yuuri repeats, taken aback. “My sister’s been kidnapped by _trolls_?”

“You think she’s been kidnapped?”

“Educated guess. I don't think Mari would willingly go into _troll_ territory.”

Trolls are known throughout the entire kingdom to be a non-negotiable and easily aggravated bunch, which is why most of them are gathered in a more isolated part of the kingdom. Victor makes it a point to stay as far away from them as possible, as does everybody else. If his tracking is right (it always is), it’d be good to bet that Mari is in a bit of trouble.

“Reasonable,” Victor says. “Yes then, I do believe your sister’s been kidnapped.”

Out of everything he could have done, Victor doesn’t expect Yuuri to laugh. A bit hysterically, yes, but laughing nonetheless. “Trolls.” Yuuri barks out another laugh. “Of course. How am I not surprised? Mari. Trolls. _Jesus.”_

After his laughter dies down, Yuuri wipes a tear from his eye and apologizes. “Sorry, it’s just… you never think it’s gonna happen to you until it does.”

“I understand,” Victor says, not understanding at all.

When he says that, Yuuri’s expression hardens. “I have to find her.”

“Do you not think your sister can manage on her own?” Victor asks.

“She’s one of the strongest people I know,” Yuuri tells him honestly. “But I can’t stay here and do nothing. I gotta head over to troll territory.”

“That’s quite a feat,” Victor observes. They both know that by the time Yuuri gets there his sister is as good as gone, but he admires Yuuri’s loyalty. “Do you know how to get there?”

Yuuri winces. “No. But I can find my way.”

“Hmm.” Victor rests his chin on his knuckles, thinking. “Unfortunately, it’s very far from where we are. The opposite side of the kingdom, actually. So you wouldn’t be able to catch up to them before they breach their own borders.”

 _“Opposite — ”_ Yuuri rubs his hand over his face, heaving a sigh. “How the hell did they even get there that fast?”

Victor shrugs. “Most likely by use of a portal. A sorcerer for hire, maybe. From here, it would take you at least five months on foot.”

“You know where troll territory is?”

“I’ve never been there myself but I do recall its general area. From what I remember, it’s east of here. I know that’s not much, but it’s a start.”

Yuuri nods gratefully and stands. “Thank you. You’ve done much more for me than what I’d ask for.”

Victor says, “Not a problem,” with his professional grin back in his face. He stares at Yuuri’s back as the man walks to where he came.

It’s a very nice back.

“Wait.”

Yuuri stops and looks back at him questioningly. Victor is standing up now.

“I’ve just remembered,” he recalls, snapping his fingers as if he’s had a “eureka” moment. “I have some business to settle with the leader of the trolls. You wouldn't mind if I join you on your quest?”

All he knows about the troll king is that his name is Jean-Jacques and is infamous for his unmatched ego. But Victor has always been good at thinking on the fly.

Yuuri thinks about this for a moment. “I don’t have any more money,” he reveals. His fingers ghost across the front door’s handle and his lips purse.

“That’s fine,” Victor assures him. “Really, you showed up just in time. I was just about to head out. I can portal us to a town that’s nearer to troll territory than my woods, cutting the journey in half. I’d take us immediately there if I could, but I can’t portal to places I’ve never been to.”

“If you’ve never been there, then why do you need to speak to their leader?”

Yuuri is sharp. Victor gives him both a smile and the most vague answer he can come up with. “I have business with a lot of people, Yuuri.”

“Oh. Okay.” Yuuri stares in surprise before the sharp line of his brows soften in gratitude. “Yeah, I wouldn’t mind at all. You’re too kind.”

“I’m a very nice man, aren’t I?” Victor agrees cheekily, already beginning to gather his things for the journey. He strides across the room to the drawer where he keeps his potions. He doesn’t need to bring much; if he wants something, he can teleport whatever he needs from his cottage.

“Definitely.” Yuuri scratches his head and tracks Victor's swift movements with a keen eye. “To be honest,” he says, embarrassed, “I was a bit nervous coming here? You were kind of a last resort.”

“Hm. Should I be offended?” Victor casts an unimpressed look, but that small prick of displeasure immediately flattens when he sees how panicked Yuuri looks at his words. Victor chuckles and looks down as he kneels on one leg and opens the bottom drawer. “I’m joking, Yuuri. I know us sorcerers don't have the greatest reputation, known to be a bit mischievous and selfish when it comes to our magic. It wouldn't be accurate to generalize us all, but even I’d confess that we’re not the easiest bunch to work with.”

“Sorry.” Victor hears laughter and relief in his voice. “Well, no need to take my word for it, but I’d say you’re pretty selfless. For a sorcerer,” he adds jokingly.

“Why thank you,” he says, glancing up from where he’s kneeling next to his drawer. His stare catches, and he spends much longer than he should crouching in a cramped position that hurts his knees, just looking.

Yuuri is a stranger. His lips are chapped and the bags under his eyes are telling, but the curve of his mouth as he smiles is brighter than the sun that shines through Victor's open window. It's nearly blinding.

Yuuri is a stranger, and he is also wrong. Victor is the most selfish person in the world.

 

\-----

 

Before starting on their journey, Victor takes them back to the village so Yuuri can gather some supplies. After some walking and a silence between them Victor somehow doesn’t find uncomfortable, he can see it: an adequately sized manor about a mile away from the village. It’s a bit rough around the edges and the lawn could use a trim, but it’s charming nonetheless.

“I’ve told you, Yuuri, anything we need for our trip I can get with a snap of my fingers,” Victor chastises as he follows Yuuri to his home.

“I won’t be long. Just need to grab a few things and tell my parents where I’m headed,” Yuuri surmises.

“At least pack light; it’ll be a pain to carry such a heavy load all the way to our destination.”

“Got it.” A cool breeze hits them, its unusual appearance in the summer’s cruel heat making it much colder to the touch than it actually is. Victor welcomes it as Yuuri rubs his fingers together to stave off its bite.

True to Yuuri’s word, they’re in and out in an hour, most of Victor's time spent watching from the sidelines as Yuuri arduously yet successfully convinces his parents to stay behind. It’s obvious that his mother in particular is the most hesitant of the pair to send Yuuri off; even at a distance Victor can see the concern pull the corner of her mouth down into a pursed frown. But the rapport traded back and forth between the three has an air of mutual respect and love that is shown when the father captures them all in a tight embrace Victor almost feels uncomfortable to bear witness of.

As Victor waits for Yuuri in the manor’s fading garden, he notes that what the Katsukis lack in wealth and status they make up for in familial support and fierce loyalty. A fair trade-off indeed.

He slowly begins to understand why Yuuri would risk death to find his sister, would put his life into the hands of a sorcerer with careless disregard for self-preservation. If their bond is as close as Victor suspects, than to Yuuri, this isn’t a risk at all.

“I’m ready,” Yuuri says when he appears by Victor's side. He seems to have taken heed of Victor's advice, only taking a short-sword strapped to his hip along with the supplies he’d originally brought for his venture into Victor's woods. “Thanks for waiting.”

“Not a problem,” Victor placates him, and with an unnecessarily flashy hand motion, he magicks a portal into existence. “This will take us to a town that is about a couple month’s journey to troll territory. Maybe less if we can get a hold of some horses.” He holds out a hand to Yuuri. “I must warn you; travelling through portals isn’t the most pleasant experience, especially for first-timers. Are you ready?”

With a quick glance at his parents behind him, Yuuri nods, determination squaring his jaw. He takes Victor's proffered hand, and Victor can feel the exactly where the grooves of Yuuri’s bow perfectly slides into place in his roughened palm. Or maybe he’s imagining things.

The grip Yuuri has on Victor's hand tightens. He doesn’t look back as Victor leads them through the portal’s dizzying array of incomprehensible colors.

 

\-----

 

Victor hadn’t told Yuuri this, but the town he portals them to isn’t one he’d say he’s familiar with. The last time he’d visited was years long before Yuuri was born, in the time where the Katsuki name was at its height. They’re only here for convenience and won’t stay for long, so Victor thought this information wouldn’t be of importance.

Well.

“By the gods,” Yuuri says, sounding scandalized. Victor couldn't know for sure; the guards had put them in separate cells. “That was _quick.”_

“This must be a world record,” Victor muses. “The fastest arrest and detainment, that is. Do we even get a trial?”

“Shut up,” a guard barks somewhere. Victor can't discern the exact location since it’s so dark. Because of his darkvision Victor can still see reasonably well, but he can’t imagine what this is doing to Yuuri. “You are prisoners; you have the right to remain silent, so I suggest you take advantage it.”

“How rude,” Victor mutters. The last time he was arrested was long ago, and once he was finished dealing with those who imprisoned him, people were much more polite to him than this.

After a lengthy period of internal irritation on Victor's part and disturbing silence from Yuuri’s, the creak of a metal door ricochets throughout the small jail of the town the two of them had the pleasure of portalling into. A mumbled discussion begins to approach them along with the sharp echo of footsteps.

“A visitor,” Victor infers to Yuuri through the mossy stone walls. “Please let it be someone with common sense.”

It’s not. Who it is, however, as the guard introduces, is the “Supreme Overseer and Confidant of the Independent Republic of Borbury.” From this, Victor connects the dots of what must be a very tumultuous history of this small town since the last time he visited.

“Borbury,” Yuuri says, because apparently that’s the only word he’d latched onto in that lengthy title. “Of all the things you could’ve named your town, you chose Borbury.”

“Silence,” the Supreme Overseer and Confidant of the Independent Republic of Borbury orders. “You two have illegally crossed into the Independent Republic of Borbury’s territory. If I were you, I’d be much more worried about your imminent future than the name of the _country_ you’ve trespassed into.” His voice is nasal and unpleasant, a complete one eighty from Yuuri’s tingle-inducing timbre.

“We’re extremely sorry,” Victor says. From past experience, he knows that the only way to gain the upper hand against people of this disposition is to placate their abnormally large egos. “We had no idea of your...foreign policies. I can assure you that we merely wanted to pass through your humble lands.”

He assumes the ensuing silence is of the Supreme Overseer debating whether to believe his claims. Finally, Victor hears, “Witnesses on the scene of your abrupt arrival say that you came out of a portal. Is this true?”

“Yes.”

“That makes one of you a magic-user or some sort?”

“I am,” Victor confirms, already suspicious.

“I see.” The rattle of keys, of freedom. “If this is true, then I have a proposition for you, in exchange for your release.”

As expected. Everybody wants something. _The limits of a man’s greed knows no bounds,_ Victor thinks bitterly. He is far too familiar with people like this; they are the main reason Victor had decided to leave everything behind.

“On what grounds?” he asks.

“That will be negotiated after you agree to the deal.”

Normally Victor would turn down these types of lucrative negotiations; a person unwilling to disclose their true intentions was never one to be trusted. And, if Victor’s being honest with himself, it shouldn’t take much effort to overthrow his captors, break out of this jail cell and get the hell out of here.

However, this cell is cramped and damp and dark, and Yuuri has been concerningly mute the entire exchange. This isn’t uncharacteristic of him; Victor has only known him for a couple of hours and he’s already observed Yuuri’s appreciation for the beauty of silence. But Victor is cramped and damp and dark, and the quiet reassurance Victor has already come to associate with the Katsuki seems almost unattainably enticing right now, unobstructed by cold cell walls and shrill men who boast their shrill egos.

“Does the reward of freedom also pertain to my companion?” Victor chooses to ask. “Actually, no. This is non-negotiable. Yuuri is to walk free with me if I agree to your terms.”

“Very well.” To whom Victor assumes is the guard, the Supreme Overseer says, “See that these two are released and escorted to my office,” and promptly leaves.

“That was anticlimactic,” Yuuri says when the doors slam shut, the first thing Victor has heard from him in hours.

“Would it have killed you to jump in at any point?” Victor asks, only half-serious.

“It seemed like you had everything under control,” Yuuri tells him. “Thanks, by the way.”

Yuuri’s confidence in Victor is flattering. Victor lets it go. “I just hope what the Supreme Overseer wants isn’t time-consuming. Troll territory is still quite the distance away.”

“How long would you say it’ll take us now?”

“You know, I hadn’t taken into consideration being imprisoned when I had calculated the length of this trip. If these types of detours continue? An overestimation would be three months. Some horses would be a miracle with our luck so far.” Victor once again curses the darkness of his cell and Yuuri’s absence in it. He would love to see how Yuuri was doing besides what the sound of his voice implies.

That piece of news must not have left a good impression on Yuuri, because his voice is laced with panic when he says, “My sister —“

“Is fine,” Victor assures him. He doesn’t have any way of verifying this, but what he doesn’t need is a panicking mess of a companion along with the already stressful situation at hand, no matter how charming said companion is.

“We’re leaving,” the guard says when he reappears, and he unlocks Victor's door. When the guard goes to grab his arm, Victor bypasses him with grace and a wicked grin, unwilling to feel his tight grip around his forearm.

“Took you long enough,” is Victor's cheerful reply. He exits the cell with an enticing sway of his hips that's absolutely wasted when he finds that Yuuri hasn't been let out yet.

Yuuri looks a bit worse for wear when the guard opens the cell door for him. “Thanks,” he says as a greeting, dusting off his tunic with a palm. The angular planes of his face isn’t at all impeded by the lack of light, and Victor is forever grateful that his magic blesses him the ability to see in the dark.

“Ah.” Victor nods and begins to trail after the guard, who’s already began to make his way out of the jailhouse. “Certainly. Now, let’s see what our dear new friend wants.”

Fortunately, the Supreme Overseer’s demands aren’t drastic. A few protective wards here and there on the republic’s borders is enough the please him; ostensibly Borbury is going through a recession and couldn’t afford the high prices sorcerers are known for.

“Why don’t you ask the crown for assistance?” Victor hears Yuuri ask the Supreme Overseer. The two stay a respectable distance behind him as he finishes up the last ward, making a show out of it for the small crowd of Borburians he’s managed to attract during the trek around their land.

“We are an _independent_ republic, Sir Katsuki,” the Supreme Overseer’s snidely replies. “We seceded from Hasetsu a mere thirty years ago. What would become of our reputation if we were to ask for a loan from the kingdom we’ve recently broke off from? We’d look like a tantrum child crawling back to its mother for dinnertime.”

“Are you even formally recognized as an independent state by the royal family?” Yuuri wonders.

The Supreme Overseer huffs. “The monarchy is an archaic concept.”

That doesn’t answer Yuuri’s question, but he doesn’t press the matter.

“I don’t understand how you can call yourself a republic when you're a self-appointed leader with the title of ‘supreme overseer,’“ Victor chimes in, unrolling his sleeves as he admires his finished handiwork. The crowd rewards him with a smattering of applause, and Victor bows in thanks.

“Supreme Overseer and _Confidant,”_ the Supreme Overseer corrects. “My people can always confide with me. And I am _not_ self-appointed. We had a general election when we first seceded, and we’re having another next year.” He adds, “And naturally, I'm running for reelection.”

Having a general election every thirty years isn't how a republic works at all, but Victor doesn’t care enough to voice this out. “Fascinating. Well, Supreme Overseer, it seems like my work here is done. Your state’s borders are now properly secure.”

Things go smoothly after that. They’re allowed to stay the night in the national inn and are greeted with enthusiasm when they wake up the next morning. In thanks, Victor and Yuuri are gifted a generous amount of Borbury’s “national dish,” a block of cheese. Victor has never been one to reject gifts, and he accepts it graciously. They are sent off with a promise from the Supreme Overseer that they are now welcome in Borbury anytime, and that they must visit again for Borburian Independence Day.

“We should have asked for some horses,” Yuuri mutters, adjusting his satchel strap as they head east. The sun shines high and the rest of the day waits for them to catch up.

“I don’t think their current economic standing would have made that possible,” Victor reasons. According to the Borburians, the dirt path they follow leads to a small pitstop for travellers such as themselves, about a couple of days or so of leisure walk during the daytime and rest at nightfall. Without horses, Victor realizes, they might not make it in time before something happens to Yuuri’s sister. “And besides, I think we’ve pushed our luck enough there as it is. That could’ve turned out much less pleasant.”

“Like how?”

Victor shrugs. “Oh, who knows? I’d like to not think about how the Borburian’s initial plan was to keep us locked in those cells for an indefinite period.”

“Indentured servitude?” Yuuri suggests. “Forced naturalization? They seemed keen at the prospect of having a magic-user around to tend to their needs.”

Victor shudders in distaste at that. “Yeah, I _definitely_ don’t want to think about that.”

After a pause, Yuuri says, “I wouldn’t have let them. Do that to you, that is.”

“I appreciate the sentiment,” Victor says, “but I’m sure I could handle myself if the situation called for it.”

“You certainly could,” Yuuri says, “and I’m not implying that you couldn’t. I’m just saying that if the situation called for it, I wouldn't run away.”

Victor couldn’t have foreseen it, but somehow that was the exact right thing for Yuuri to say.

“I’ve lived long enough to be certain that what people say is much different to how people act during times of struggle,” he says, thinking about the times he watched the backs of those he thought he could trust leaving when he needed them the most. Centuries could pass but that sight is something that will never change, as well as the emptiness he feels whenever it happens.

Yuuri shrugs. His strides are easy and long, but he stays by Victor's side; not Victor's follower nor his leader, but his companion. “You don’t have to believe it. You've already done so much for me, but can I ask for one more thing?”

“Anything,” Victor says without meaning to. His insides churn, concerned at what that word and his willingness to say it could mean.

“Your trust,” Yuuri states simply. “If we’re to take this journey together, I’d like to have the knowledge that the person I’m entrusting my life to knows that he can entrust his life in me, too.”

Victor has known him for a day. There are some beings in this realm he has known for generations, but none he’s as desperate to know than Yuuri. “How can I know if you deserve it?” he asks.

“You can’t. And I probably don’t,” Yuuri admits, glancing down. Both their feet are covered in dirt and a cloud of dust follows their every step. “Looking back at it now, I haven’t done anything to prove that I do. But. I’m asking you to trust me anyways. I’m sorry. I can prove it to you along the way? If you’ll let me.”

When Yuuri turns his head to him, his stare is sincere and without a hint of malice. From his earlier experiences with them, Victor knows that Katsukis are liars. But that was before they fell from grace, before Victor met Yuuri.

He thinks back to earlier today at Katsuki manor, where he watched him hug his parents with a fierce devotion, how they all seemed to be each other’s most important parts of each other’s worlds. Katsukis may be disgraced outcasts now, but Yuuri is anything but lonely. Victor cannot say the same.

“You don’t need to,” Victor says under his breath. Yuuri doesn't catch it, but he lets the subject drop. The sun hits their hair and the napes of their necks and Victor relishes the burn it scathes onto his freezing skin.

 

\-----

 

When the pitstop turns out to be a glorified clearing within a plain of wild grass, they set up camp around its perimeter for the night. The campfire Victor snaps into existence warms his hands as he holds them dangerously close to the licking flames.

“Don’t do that,” Yuuri chastises, concerned. “You’ll burn yourself.”

Victor says, “Tell me something.” He doesn’t pull his hands away.

Yuuri observes him, processing his sudden request. He counters with a question of his own, saying, “What do you want to know?”

“I’m not picky,” Victor says, knowing how Yuuri knows how untrue that is. He’d been there when Victor refused ten different bottles of wine a Borburian waiter had offered them, saying they weren’t aged enough for his tastes. “Something important, I guess.”

He doesn’t respond right away, content with his hand on his knees as they sit together around the fire. Victor likes that about Yuuri. He takes care with what he says, no matter how insignificant the conversation is.

“My sister is smart,” Yuuri says. “So smart. She can best anyone in a game of wits. Everyone in our village, they advised our parents to marry her off young. They didn’t approve of her independence, of her tendency to join me in my combat training. They thought tying her down early would stop her behavior. But she refused. Every suitor brought home she turned down. Our name isn’t the most influential, but my sister is beautiful and charming, no one could resist her.

“Eventually my parents gave up and began supporting her endeavors instead. They figured out that nothing could stop Mari from doing something she wants to do.”

“And what does she want to do?” Victor prods.

“Learn,” Yuuri replies. “She went to the capital for school, studied there. Her teachers lauded her as a genius and she was offered a job there, something about researching and developing remedies for illnesses.”

“You must have been so proud.”

“I was. We all were.” Yuuri smiles at the fire. “Spends four months of the year at the capital and the rest at home, working at the village as a cleric. She’s doing so much, y’know?” Yuuri chuckles, but it sounds bitter to Victor’s ears. “She’s out there making the the world a better place — and here I am, having spent the first time I’ve ever left the village I was born in imprisoned by a town whose population is in the triple digits.”

Victor frowns. “Doesn’t do much good comparing yourself to others’ accomplishments, doesn’t it?”

“It does when the person you’re comparing yourself to is your older sister,” Yuuri grumbles, “and when you’ve never done anything close to her accomplishments, and never will.”

Victor watches small embers from the fire harmlessly flick into Yuuri’s dark hair. “Huh. I don’t like that.” When Yuuri glances at him in surprise at his frank dispute, Victor says, “Well, first of all, measuring yourself to someone who seems to be a once in a generation prodigy hardly seems fair. And second,” Victor continues, holding up a hand to stop Yuuri from interrupting, “you seem like a very successful man to me.”

“And how would you know that?” Yuuri asks, apprehensive. “You don’t even know me.”

“I don’t,” Victor admits. “But what I _can_ see is a young man who loves his sister enough to team up with a devastatingly handsome yet eccentric sorcerer he doesn’t know, and begin the impressive feat of traveling across the entire kingdom to find her. And doesn’t that alone give his character some merit?”

Yuuri, still looking at their fire, bites his lip to keep from smiling. He fails. Victor marvels at the sight. “Doesn’t seem like much,” he tells him. His cheekbones, appled from his smile, are absolutely enthralling.

“Well, it does to me.” And, with a wry smirk, Victor adds, “My opinion might not mean much to you, but it's something, at least.”

The look Yuuri sends him warms Victor's bones more than any fire could. “Thanks,” he says. He doesn't say what he's thanking him for, but Victor doesn't need him to.

 

\-----

 

When the sky is light again and sweat drips into Victor's eyes, Yuuri asks, “What about you?”

He wipes his face with his sleeve with a soft sigh. This is why he chose to live in the woods for the past century. At least there, there was shelter from the unforgiving heat.

“What about me?” he says. He pops a bit of cheese in his mouth. He might not be the biggest fans of them, but Victor can’t help but grudgingly applaud the Borburians for their dairy.

“Tell me something important about you,” Yuuri says. “Like last night.”

“Oh.” Victor stares straight ahead. If he looks hard enough he can see the next village in the distance.

“I don't want to overstep any boundaries,” Yuuri grimaces when the silence stretches too long. “I answered your question last night and I thought. Um.”

The day he was born, Victor remembers his mother telling him, the ground shook and the ravens cawed in welcome. The wind made the plains sing, a soothing lullaby to calm his inconsolable crying. The midwife took one look at the wisps of white hair on his head and the electric, nearly unnatural blue of his eyes, and held him up to the heavens, pronouncing greatness in his future; that his soul will burn eternally; that he was destined to be the most powerful sorcerer to ever grace this realm.

His mother would put his small head against her bosom and whisper of the day of his birth, rocking them back and forth in the corner of their meager hut whenever his father came home with too much to drink. She was certain of his place in the future, and Victor believed her.

But that was before his mother died, before he learned that immortality meant he would continue living after the greatness he was prophesied to bring preceded him.

He could tell Yuuri of his role in the formation of Hasetsu. Maybe he could mention how his charisma as well as his proficient hand at magic single handedly helped end the most taxing and disastrous war in Hasetsu history — and then do so again, like clockwork, every other turn of the century for so many times he has since lost count. Victor is an accomplished man, an even more accomplished sorcerer, and he no longer cares for any of it. Call him jaded, but as years pass the more Victor can see that the greatness that midwife saw in him could only last so long.

What’s so great about him, now? He’s a village pariah who lives in the woods because he won’t to let anyone in anymore. His golden age is long over — not because it was prophesied, but because he let it.

“I have a dog,” Victor professes.

“A dog,” Yuuri repeats, perking up at the mention of Victor’s beloved pet.

“Light of my life,” he confirms. “Her name is Makkachin. The fifth in a line of Makkachins, really; I’ve never been the best at names. She’s staying with a friend while I’m away. I’m afraid I haven’t had the time to introduce you two yet.”

“Maybe later.”

“Maybe later,” Victor echos.

“After all this,” Yuuri says, promises.

“After all this,” Victor says again, a smile on his lips.

 

\-----

 

They meet a boy when they finally set foot in a village far beyond the land of Borbury, a little over three weeks later. He has a shock of blonde hair and a wide smile that bares all his teeth. Without warning he latches onto Victor's arm like an old friend and laughs, walking in stride with them. With an annoyed _tsk,_ Victor goes to shake him off. He’s tired and dusty and he doesn't like to be touched without being asked first.

“Please help me,” he says between grinning teeth. “I’m being followed. They’ll kill me.”

This makes him pause, casting a look at Yuuri to gauge his reaction; over the past three weeks he has grown adept in picking up the other man’s silent cues. He looks as surprised as Victor feels, and he flicks his gaze to search for whoever the boy’s talking about. The village is open and full, nothing amiss.

“Please,” the boy says, his fingers digging into Victor's skin. He can feel him tremble.

Victor looks at Yuuri again. He stares back, resolute. The decision has already been made.

They had originally planned to stay the night and leave in the morning. Now, they don’t stop walking until the village is far behind them.

When night falls, they sit in a small clearing they’d stumbled upon, watching with bated breath as Yuuri struggles to catch a spark with his flint and steel. Victor had offered to snap a fire up like he did before but Yuuri rejected his offer. “Let me at least pretend I’m useful,” was his reasoning (Victor frowns at that. Yuuri doesn’t think he’s useful? How foolish. Why does he think the two of them are on this quest in the first place?). It takes him a good five minutes before the flint catches on a spark, and he blows at the tiny flame until it reaches a decent size.

“Okay,” Yuuri says to the boy, stern. “Talk.”

“My name is Yuri Plisetsky,” the boy says, avoiding eye-contact by picking at a loose thread on his travel-weary shirt, “and my father is trying to kill me.”

“Yuri Plisetsky,” Victor muses with a tapping finger on his chin. The name sounds familiar. “Yuri Plisetsky. Yuri Pli — oh, _shit_.”

“What is it?” Yuuri asks, still in the dark.

“He’s Yuri Plisetsky,” Victor hisses to him. “Heir of the most widespread crime syndicate in Hasetsu? Son of current leader of said crime syndicate, Alexander Plisetsky? Blood-thirsty, off-the-walls insane Alexander Plisetsky?”

“Oh,” Yuuri says.

“He found me,” Yuri interjects, pulling the attention back to him. He stares back now, and all Victor can see on Yuri’s face is undeniable youth and undeniable desperation. “My grandfather and I have been in hiding since I was born and he finally found us, and now he has my grandfather and he wants me, too, and — I swear, if he gets me, he’s going to kill me.”

No matter how disillusioned from Alexander he claims to be, Yuri is still a threat. His men will surely come after him and, if they decide to tag along, Victor and Yuuri, too. If he were two centuries younger, maybe Victor would have immediately stepped up to take the challenge, thinking that it was his birthright to care for this random child he bumped into on the street.

But he’s not. He’s a hermit who lives alone with his dog. Yuri seems like a nice boy, but Victor has better things to do than to tend to the needs of a stranger.

Before Victor can say anything, Yuuri then asks, “What can we do to help?” ignoring Victor’s surprised blink.

“You’ll help me?” Yuri looks like he could collapse from relief. “I hate asking for help but — I was sure you were going to leave.”

“Well, we wouldn’t want to disappoint your expectations,” Victor mutters under his breath, and he grunts when Yuuri jabs him in the ribs with a sharp elbow.

“My godmother owns an inn east of here. It can’t be more than a couple hour’s walk down this path, into the next village. If you could come with me there, I’d appreciate the company.”

Yuuri says, “We’re heading east as well. We can escort you to your godmother's inn as long as it’s along the way.”

“I don’t know how to repay you,” Yuri says. His eyes are big and blue. Victor can’t at all see a hint of Plisetsky in him.

“Some horses would be nice,” Victor suggests snidely, only a quarter of the way serious.

“Deal.”

Victor sputters, “What? You? Oh.”

“Don't look a gift horse in the mouth,” Yuuri reprimands before lifting his chin up proudly at the pun.

Victor is perturbed by the unforeseen turn of events, but doesn’t complain after that.

 

\-----

 

Unsurprisingly, a group of Alexander’s men catch up to them an hour away from the place Yuri had said he would be safe.

“Give us the boy,” one of them, a towering half-orc, demands. He has a menacing mace resting menacingly on his shoulder. His ten other friends loom over him. It’s all very intense.

Victor is not at all threatened. He’s been confronted by much more dangerous enemies in his time than some unnamed lackeys.

“Nothing to see here, just some weary travellers going about our day,” he says, waving a hand dismissively.

This does not at all deter them. They raise their various weapons in unison, glaring down at the three of them in an attempt at intimidation.

“Well then,” Victor says.

It’s relatively easy to fight them off. Victor has faced entire armies with less help than he has now, years before these men had even the thought of threatening him in their minds. A flick of his wrist and a mumbled spell under his breath sends a good number of them to the floor. He feels the buzz of his magic seep through his skin, listens as it sings in gratitude for the opportunity to be used for something other than menial tasks or the request of a client.

But Victor finds himself distracted. Even though it’s obviously not his weapon of choice Yuuri is graceful with a sword, dodging and parrying like a dancer at a ball, spinning from partner to partner. The line of his figure furling and unfurling as he sidesteps a lazy hit and returns with a swipe of his own is mesmerizing to watch.

Yuuri’s sword glints from the moonlight that crests through the trees. His eyes are the same. Victor doesn’t notice the thug at his back, his mace raised in the air creeping a shadow over his still figure.

 _Thunk. Thwack. Thud. Thunk._ He spins around on the balls of his feet to find Yuri behind him, beating a man Victor had overlooked with a large branch Yuri had broke off from a nearby tree.

“Stay — the fuck — _down!”_ Yuri yells with each hit, the thug no match with the teenager’s pent up, adolescent rage.

 _Yes,_ Victor thinks, _he is definitely a Plisetsky._

Afterwards, with the thugs thoroughly dealt with, Victor watches with curiosity as Yuri finally drops his tree branch with raw palms and heaving breaths, the anger in his eyes as overbearingly tight as the clenching grit of his teeth. He had refused to let go of the improvised weapon until Yuuri had confirmed that none of the men were getting back up any time soon.

“How old are you, boy?” Victor asks him. Yuuri mindfully stays where he is, head down, kneeling next to the prone form of an unconscious hunk of a man artfully defeated by Yuuri’s sly hand.

Yuri spits. The night casts no favors but Victor is sure that there is blood dotting the corner of Yuri’s mouth.

“Fifteen,” he replies through a locked jaw, staring down at the thug he’d fallen with a tree branch and an unforgiving swing.

The snarl of his upper lip and the rigid spiral of his fists are filled with an age-old weariness and distrust, something Victor has only seen in souls much older. Fifteen. He inadvertently begins to wonder what horrors a boy as young as he has had to experience to harbor such fueled emotions to such a degree, enough to weigh years and years down on his youthful features.

“We should get going,” Yuuri suggests, patting the dirt off his trousers. “Before we garner more unwanted company.”

Still downcast, Yuri grits out a, “Fine,” and slinks off into the dark sludge of midnight, not bothering to see if the other two follow.

“He’s a child,” Victor murmurs, and Yuuri pauses at his side instead of heading to where Yuri leads them. “Fifteen. By the gods, he’s only fifteen.”

The man Yuri had bashed into the head of breathes shallow, wet breaths. The branch is more rusted iron than bark now.

From the corner of his vision he sees an uncertain hand hovering near his shoulder. “I,” Yuuri says before dropping his attempt of physical comfort. “Let’s get going, Victor.”

Victor stands there for a moment before he follows Yuuri’s form, the last of the three to leave.

(Yuuri must have noticed how Victor strays from another’s touch, and he is right. Throughout the years he has come to resent how freely people think they can be with both his power and himself, and it shows from his averse nature towards the lingering touch from others. Victor is both grateful and disappointed. Yuuri is young, inexperienced with the world outside of his village and sorcerers such as he, but he likes Yuuri’s thoughtful silence and how he treats him with both respect and equal footing. Victor would make an exception for him.)

 

\-----

 

The inn Yuri leads them to is on the outskirts of a small town a good trek away from the last populated area Yuuri and Victor were in; small but quaint, bustling with nighttime activity from travelers weary for a good night’s rest.

“You are welcome to stay the night,” Yuri’s godmother says, stern in the face yet tender in the voice. She’d introduced herself as Lilia, the same name as the inn they’re standing in. She is an old woman whose straight-backed posture is as tight as the ballet bun she’s sporting, bringing her elven blood to the surface by highlighting her pointed ears and sharp green eyes. Victor can sense the wisdom she holds in waves.

A flicker of recognition flashes in her eyes when he first enters, and his insides churn at what this may mean.

“I don’t know what would have happened if Yuri had been taken away,” she continues. “Thank you bringing him home, we’ll be sure to keep him safe.”

“I don’t think Yuri wants ‘safe’,” Yuuri mentions, because he too was there when the teenager had fought tooth and nail, unabashed in his hatred for the man who had sent a group of armed crooks on his trail. “I think he wants vengeance.”

The smile Lilia sends them is both defeated and accepting. “I know,” she says. “But now, at least, he won’t be going at it alone.”

It’s after Yuuri and Victor had accepted her invitation of staying the night when they find out about Lilia’s intentions of eradicating the large network of crime the Plisetsky family has been at the forefront of for centuries.

“It’s for Yuri,” Lilia explains when she sees the change from polite interest to complete disbelief on Victor and Yuuri’s faces, “it’s all for Yuri. This has been going on long enough. Yuri’s grandfather —” Her voice catches at the mention, and Yuri, sitting a table away nursing a tankard of milk, balls his hands into white-knuckled fists. “He and I thought we could protect him from his birthright, but all we did was prolong the inevitable. Now Alexander knows of Yuri’s existence, he will stop at nothing to take him back. I have a group I trust who know the ins and outs of Hasetsu, committed to the cause. I know this is asking too much, and you've already done so much for us, but — will you be willing to help?”

Yuuri gives Victor a glance, hesitant to speak for the both of them. Victor nods to goad him on. “We’d love to, but we’re also in the middle of something right now.” He sits taller in his seat, resolve pulling his shoulders back. “Someone precious has been taken from me as well and like you, I need to get her back.”

“We hope for good fortune, surely. For both of you,” Victor adds. He finds that he is being sincere.

Lilia’s gaze, polished steel, softens. “I understand,” she says. “Thank you anyways. May we meet again.”

She pulls Victor aside before he can go to bed. He pouts as he watches Yuuri head into their room without him and shakes the hand on his elbow away. “Please don’t do that,” he tells her.

“I know who you are,” she says.

Victor feels needles jab at the tips of his ears and the nape of his neck. “Do you,” he says.

“I have heard stories of you since I was young,” she tells him, “tales of unimaginable feats, of your grasp of all sorts of magic, unmatched. Throughout the centuries, before Hasetsu was even a thought in a hopeful king’s mind, you appeared in times of great strife to give help to the deserving. You are the reason why this kingdom stands as it is today. You are Victor Nikiforov, the greatest sorcerer to have ever lived. Are you not?”

She is sincere and in need of help, Victor knows. Hasetsu will be better off without the Plisetsky’s iron-clad grip around its throat — and despite the short time, he has grown to be fond of both of them, Yuri especially. Victor sees a bit of himself in him when he was young; full of spite towards the world for the cards he had been given, unwanting of a title bestowed upon him before he had any chance to turn it down. He pauses, eyeing Lilia up with an assessing eye.

“No,” he replies, turning and closing the door on her face, like a dog with its tail between its legs, like the coward he is.

 

\-----

 

"Do you think they'll be alright?" Yuuri asks, when the two of them are laying on separate beds on separate corners of the dark, dusty room Lilia let them stay in for the night.

Victor thinks of Yuri's feral ferocity and Lilia's wise disposition. "I'm sure of it," he says.

Yuuri exhales, slow and even. With uncertainty in his voice, he asks, "Was it the right thing to do?"

"What was?"

"To —" he laughs, self-belittling, and Victor can hear the rustle of Yuuri running a hand through his hair. "To reject them, I guess. To turn down their plea for help."

The wool blanket Victor has pulled over himself scratches against his skin. It's unpleasant. He focuses on Yuuri's voice instead. "And what makes you think that?"

"I don't know. It was a stupid question."

"Nothing you say will ever be stupid."

Yuuri snorts.

"Talk to me," Victor says, pleads.

The worn wood of the bed frame creaks as Yuuri shifts on the mattress. "Just — I feel like I should be doing _more."_

Victor thinks of Yuuri in motion, his foot drawing an arch in the dirt as he adjusts his stance against a giant of a man twice his size. Formidable, but not invincible. Victor noticed what Yuuri had tried to hide after the confrontation: the cuts from numerous falls onto unforgiving terrain, the discolored, broken skin. Without hesitating, Yuuri had fought for a child he had known for little more than an hour.

"I think you're doing enough," he tells him.

"Sorry," Yuuri says. Victor doesn't know what he's apologizing for. "I do this all the time. Doubting myself. It's a hard habit to break."

"What good is that going to do?" Victor replies. "You shouldn't doubt yourself. Self-doubt leads to self-loathing, and what does that lead to? Nothing, because you're too busy hating yourself to get anything done."

"Yeah." Then, a chuckle. "You sound like my sister."

"Is that a compliment?"

"The highest." That makes Victor break into a smile. Yuuri is able to do that to him with ease, he finds. "Hey, can I ask you something? It’s been on my mind for a while."

"Of course."

Yuuri clears his throat. "When you asked to accompany me in my quest, you said it was because you had business with the trolls. Do you, though? Have business with the trolls, I mean."

Victor stops. He listens. Outside, rain streaks the lone windowpane of the room and creates a white wall of noise. Yuuri breathes in the dark. If Victor thinks about it, he can almost see it: in, out. His chest expanding with every inhale.

"No," he murmurs, an afterthought, like he doesn't want to be heard. "No, I don't."

Yuuri has that hang in the air before letting it drift onto the dusty floor, side to side, a feather of a confession. "Okay," he says. He sounds happy because of Victor's words. Relieved, almost.

If Victor were close enough, maybe he'd reach out and grab hold of Yuuri's hand.

How long has it been since this journey has started? It’s been less than a month, he’s sure. But in this short time — spent either walking in the unswept heat, fighting criminals, or imprisoned — Victor has found himself having more fun than he's had in the past century. Victor is no fool, but this has never happened to him before; it’s curiously pleasant, a nice departure from the stifling existence he had been meandering through in his woods.

"Victor," Yuuri says.

Well. Perhaps it’s not as mystifying as he's making it out to be.

 

\-----

 

They leave early the next morning, the trodden road damp from the late night downpour Victor had listened to as he went to sleep. Only Yuri is with them now, Lilia being too busy tending to her inn to personally see them off. True to his word, he supplies them with a pair of horses Lilia had been taken care for ever since a customer of hers never returned to retrieve them. They're strong and young, and Victor bites down a smile when Yuuri nearly sobs in relief, thanking them profusely in behalf of his feet, sore from the hours of continuous traveling down never ending paths leading nowhere.

"What are you going to do now?" Victor asks Yuri as Yuuri prepares their horses for the journey.

"I'm going to bring my grandfather back," Yuri tells him, his execution frank, words dripping with muted malignity. "I'm going to find my father and slit his throat with the dagger he had killed my mother with when I was a baby. I'm going to drink the blood coming from his gushing wound with glee, and I will laugh."

"Oh," Victor says. He leaves it at that.

"I wish you the best of luck," Yuuri calls down to Yuri after they’re both settled into the saddle of their respective horses. Victor’s is a dusty white, while Yuuri’s is a spotted spry thing that had reminded Victor of Makkachin when she nudged Yuuri’s cheek with her snout. “When I find my sister, maybe — if you’ll have me, I can come back and help you and Lilia with, with everything.”

"And Yuri," Victor interjects before Yuri can reply, "just — don't forget who you are, okay? You're not your father, and you’re not who they make you as. You’re a good kid."

Yuri looks up at him, perplexed at Victor’s unexpected show of concern. And Victor doesn't blame him; he doesn't know where this is coming from either. "Yeah, okay," he says. Victor hears a bit of gratitude hiding at the roof of Yuri’s mouth, but that may be him imagining things.

And with the promise of a much faster ride ahead of them, they head off.

 

\-----

 

They run into someone. Rather, someone, a gnome riding a spotted pony, runs after them; for a week, Victor and Yuuri are undisturbed by thugs or vicious crime lords: things they have sadly accepted as being potential situations they are susceptible to. However, this changes one dry evening in a bustling port town as they are leaving for the day, the amiable townspeople sending them off with enough food and drink to last them several trips around the kingdom.

"Wait!" the stranger says, waving frantically as he approaches them, his pony at a gallop. "Wait, you two!"

"Don't tell me it's another tagalong," Victor mutters in annoyance. Yuuri, too, clutches his reigns closer to his chest at the intrusion, narrowing his eyes down at the stranger for making them halt.

They wait for the stranger to catch up and say his piece. "We're sort of in a hurry," Yuuri tells him when the he slows his pony down to a stop, "so I’d appreciate it if you make this —"

"I’ve heard about your travels," the stranger interrupts. He’s out of breath and, with tousled hair and a trail of dried drool at the corner of his mouth, looks like he’s recently rolled out of bed. "You're heading to troll territory? That's east of here, right?"

Yuuri nods, distrusting and annoyed. Victor observes from the sideline, comfortable with Yuuri handling this. Yuuri, Victor finds, can be very intimidating when he wants to be. Cold. He’d realized this some time ago during a haggling session with a penny-pinching merchant, who meekly complied when Yuuri intervened with a leveled stare and a reasonable price for the herbs Victor had been meaning to purchase (a mere formality; Victor could’ve, with a snap of his fingers, had the herbs in his grasp without the baker ever knowing his product had passed hands).

When Victor had asked him about it, Yuuri chalked it up to his nerves. “Sometimes I just don’t know how to interact with people,” Yuuri confided to him once as they huddled around the fire, wringing his hands together in dismay.

“You seem fine to me,” Victor had pondered.

“I’m fine _with_ you,” Yuuri corrected. “It’s everyone else. Strangers. Rather pathetic for a noble, if you ask me.”

“And what makes me so different?”

Yuuri had stared into the fire as the flame licked the night sky with its wicked tongue. Victor remembers loving how its light had danced across the shadows of Yuuri’s cheekbones. “Because you’re you,” Yuuri decided, and he hadn’t thought to add anything further.

If Victor’s heart had been a dead organ in his chest, sick of pumping blood to his arteries throughout the years without purpose — Yuuri’s unrelenting honesty would’ve made it start beating again, a killer bee’s wings in flight, so quick it would beat right out of Victor’s chest and plop onto Yuuri’s awaiting hands.

 _(A month_ , a voice at the back of Victor’s mind sighs to him. _You have known this mortal for a month._

But what matter does a month hold, when Victor already feels the need to counter every year he has spent without the pleasure of knowing him with a year of hearing Yuuri’s heartbeat, wet and warm and alive?

 _ ~~And fleeting~~ ,_ the voice whispers back.)

“May I accompany you?” the stranger asks, pulling Victor back to the present. “I’m heading out to meet with a mage east of here as well, and travelling in a party would make that journey much easier.”

“Do you have anyone hunting you down? Democratic dictators, maybe? Crimelords, perhaps?” Yuuri says to the stranger — suddenly very tired, Victor observes. Defeated.

The stranger is taken aback. “Um. No.”

“Well let’s keep going then, shall we?” Victor joins in, steering his horse towards the open road. “We’re wasting daylight standing here.”

And, with a newly added party member trotting beside them, they head off. Again.

 

\-----

 

The stranger turns out to be, like them, a man on a mission, and is not as much an annoyance as he initially seemed to be. Despite his short stature he pulls his own weight without complaint, and Yuuri gets along with him well enough that they’re joking around with one another by the time night falls that same day. With Victor he is more reserved towards, but not without the companionable respect Victor appreciates from a travelmate. A cool distance. Maybe it’s because he knows who Victor is. Maybe it’s because he can sense that Victor is far more older than he appears, that he is far more powerful than he lets on. Victor doesn’t ask because he doesn’t want to know.

“My home hasn’t had any rain for nearly a year,” the stranger says as they ride down the sloppily cobbled road. Earlier they’d decided to cut their losses and carry on through the night. Victor feels sleep pull at his eyelids with a tempted breath, but he shakes it off. “No water at all. We —” He licks his lips. Chapped. “We’re a _farming village._ What can we grow without water? How can we harvest our non-existent crops without anything to drink? It’s. It’s bad over there. Everyone I have ever known is delirious with thirst, and we can’t — _do_ anything except hope for a drop of rainfall.

“They’re counting on me,” he continues, staring ahead with faraway eyes. “When the village elders told me of a mage east of us that might be able to help, I couldn’t sit there twiddling my thumbs. So here I am. If I don’t come back without at least _something,_ I don’t know what I’d do.”

“And the mage you’re going to,” Yuuri says. “He’s...?”

“A water evoker,” he confirms. “The most powerful mage this side of Hasetsu. The most powerful magic-user even, if the rumors are true.”

Victor sniffs.

“Ah,” the stranger says, and his eyes crinkle as he smiles in apology. “Well. Maybe not.”

“Maybe not,” Victor and Yuuri agree.

“What _I_ can’t believe is how rumors of a mage being the strongest magic-user even _began,”_ Victor continues to complain with a snide wrinkle of his nose. “Really. Someone who wasn’t even born with magical affinity? Who had to devote himself to study for years and years to master a spell I’d been born with the ability to do? As if.”

“From what I’ve heard, the mage is a water genasi,” the stranger adds. “A water elemental. So that argument doesn’t…wait for it...hold much water. Ha.”

Victor is about to waste him, and Yuuri can obviously tell. So he rolls his eyes in distraction, fondly exasperated. “Please, Phichit. Don’t get this guy started. He can go on forever about how superior a class sorcerers are from all other magic-users. It’s interesting, I guess. For the first hour.”

“Only because it’s true!” Victor protests.

The stranger — Phichit — snickers in delight at the banter. Victor notices the laugh lines branching off at the corner of his eyes. Maybe before his people uprooted his life to task him with what they all must have known to be a nearly impossible venture, to the hand of a mage who is sure to ask for a price he, with his simple peasant-wear, will be unable to afford — maybe before Phichit was sent onto a hopeless quest, he had laughed a lot.

“It seems like your destination is along the way of our own,” Victor says some time later as they observe each other’s routes. Phichit’s is marked on a faded, most likely outdated map, and Victor’s is on a large gridded map he had swiped under the Supreme Overseer’s nose during their short respite of imprisonment.

“So it’d be okay for me to travel with you guys?” he asks.

“Well,” Victor says, pretending to think. Phichit gulps.

“Oh, _please,”_ Yuuri says, leaning down to push Phichit’s shoulder playfully. “It’s not like we were going to leave you behind. Victor’s messing with you.”

He sighs a breath of relief. “You don’t know how much this means to me,” Phichit tells them. “I’ve never stepped foot outside of my village until a week ago, so I wasn’t sure how this would all turn out? And how embarrassing would it be for me to come this far only to be unable to find where I’m supposed to be? I’m not here to get between you guys and your journey, I swear, I —”

“Phichit,” Victor stops him, already exhausted. “You don’t need to explain yourself to us.”

“You’re not a burden, and we’ve had a tagalong before,” Yuuri agrees. “I’d suggest that you don’t get in Victor’s bad side, though. A bit high-maintenance, he is.”

“Excuse me?” Victor is delightfully taken aback. “I’m a humble sorcerer. _You’re_ the noble in this group.”

Phichit sputters. “ _Noble?_ Are you being serious? Yuuri, you’re — oh, dear, I’m so sorry, um, Lord? Lord Katsuki —”

“None of that,” Yuuri interjects, “I’m hardly a noble in anything but name. Yuuri is fine.”

“I don’t want to be rude.”

“You’re not.”

Victo watches on with a smirk. He enjoys the teasing, but he ends Phichit’s mortification with a, “It’s best if we skip all the formal titles and such. Yuuri’s not a noble, I’m not a sorcerer, and you’re not a farmer. You’re here now, you’re with us, and that’s it.”

Phichit scrolls up his map with a careful touch. “Of course,” Phichit relents. “Just. Thank you.”

The sincerity in his voice makes Victor crack a smile. “You’re quite welcome.”

 

\-----

 

The fire hisses and Phichit sleeps, Victor taking first watch as the group rests for the night. It’s a precaution but an important one — after what happened with Yuri, they don’t want to take any chances. And Victor doesn’t mind; he enjoys his sleep, but he enjoys the night more, its stillness, its quite breeze.

Phichit is asleep, and Yuuri should be, too. But Victor hears him shuffle under his blanket. And he does it again, turning to his side. His breathing isn’t deep and even, how it usually is when he sleeps.

“You awake?” Victor asks Yuuri’s prone form, more as a conversation starter than the need to know.

After a moment of silence Yuuri grunts, still wrapped in his blanket.

“Something on your mind?” Victor tries again.

He waits. It takes a while for Yuuri to answer.

“I didn’t want Phichit to know,” he says at last. “About my — social status.”

“Oh,” Victor says. Something jabs at his gut. Guilt, maybe. “I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have.”

“It’s okay.” His mouth is muffled with his blanket and he is facing away from Victor, who can barely hear him. “I didn’t tell you, you didn’t know.”

Victo scoffs at himself, the guilt jabbing more and more, near painful. “I hurt you for the sake of a stupid joke. I didn’t mean to.”

“It doesn’t mean anything to me, the Katsuki bloodline,” Yuuri says. “I love my family, but I feel no attachment towards our lineage, our name. And it’s been nice, not being tied to it.”

“I understand.”

The fire continues to crackle and Yuuri continues to lay there. The blanket he uses is the same one he’s had since the beginning of their adventure. It’s worn, frayed at the edges, and Victor makes a mental note to get rid of some of its roughness; enough to fix some holes and stitches, but not enough for Yuuri to notice his tampering.

“Thank you,” he says, “for understanding.”

“You don’t need to thank me,” Victor tells him. “That was part of the deal, right? To trust one another?”

“It was,” Yuuri agrees. Victor listens to the hissing fire and Phichit’s easy breathing and Yuuri’s silence until Yuuri speaks again. “Can I trust you with one more thing?”

Victor wants to know everything about him, would kneel in submission for one taste of Yuuri’s secrets. “Sure,” he says.

“I’m —” he cuts himself off, struggling to find the words. Victor waits patiently, the huddled mass of Yuuri’s blanketed form the most interesting thing Victor has seen today. “You know about...my family, right? About what my ancestors did to tarnish our name?”

Victor thinks back to his earlier presumptions about the Katsukis, as unhonorable liars, and says, “In the right circles your surname is synonymous to ‘traitor,’ you know. I’ve always wondered why you weren’t exiled from Hasetsu entirely.”

“Pity, maybe? I don’t know,” Yuuri replies meekly. “That’s why we don't leave the village much, because no one knows us around the outskirts of the kingdom. It’s been nearly two hundred years since we were casted out of the capital so our betrayal isn’t very fresh in the average citizen’s mind, but I assume that as we get further into Hasetsu the amount of people who recognize me will increase. But that’s besides the point.”

“And what is the point, Yuuri?”

“It’s because of all that,” Yuuri says, “the — the _baggage_ my name forces me to carry, it makes me feel...obligated? I guess? To — to prove myself. To everyone I meet, to those who don’t even know who the Katsukis are, who _I_ am.”

Victor remembers the quiet night in the inn, Yuuri’s lament for not helping in a situation that has nothing to do with him; he remembers the quiet deprecation Yuuri had beaten himself with when comparing himself to his sister, his complying smile — and Victor isn’t at all surprised.

“And there’s my sister,” Yuuri continues when Victor doesn’t have anything to say, “who’s _s_ o successful, _so_ good at what she does...and I don’t want to sound like I’m jealous or, or belittling her accomplishments!” he backtracks. “I’m so proud of her, I really am. Did you know she’s the only Katsuki in nearly two centuries to be allowed back into the capital?”

Victor blinks. “I did not. That’s quite the accomplishment.”

Yuuri nods vigorously. “It _is._ And I’m happy for her, but. Sometimes I see how she’s doing and…sometimes I want that to be me. But that can’t be me. So I find myself feeling so — less. Lesser than what I should be.”

Victor’s shoulders sag. “Oh, _Yuuri,”_ he sighs.

“And I know I shouldn’t feel like that!” His voice gets harsher as he continues, enough to make Phichit twitch in his sleep before grumbling and shifting away from the noise. “But I can’t help it. So I constantly try to prove my worth to others, in a vain way to somehow — prove my worth to myself, I guess. If not for my legacy and my family, then for me.”

The confession is heavy in Victor’s ears. He wants Yuuri to be closer, pull him close enough to touch, to shield him away from the cumbersome weight his ancestors burdened him with because of pride and hunger for power —

but Yuuri doesn’t need that. So Victor doesn’t.

“Nothing I can say can snap you out of this mindset, not matter how wrong it is,” Victor tells him, not knowing if his words are the right one to say. “But you are much more than a brother stuck in his sister’s shadow, or a man drenched in his bloodline’s infamous history. You’re Yuuri, and you fight off a gang of thugs in defense of a stranger with a grace only the masters could carry; you help out peasant farmers out on their own journey despite being busy with your own; you travel across a kingdom that hates you for your name instead of your character — and you do all this without any animosity, because you are better than any of us. And you are, Yuuri, you really are.”

Victor does not know if his words are the right ones to say, but he means every one of them, and he hopes it is enough.

“I know you, Yuuri,” Victor finishes, already embarrassed of his impromptu spiel. “Or, at least, I want to.”

“I —” Yuuri says. And finally, _finally,_ he turns to Victor, his face dark in shadow, and says, “I want to know you, too.”

And Victor, knowing fully that he hasn’t told Yuuri anything, this imbalanced trade, can only bring himself to nod.

 

\-----

 

For over a week they are a party of three, and Victor doesn’t mind Phichit as much as he thought he would. Sure, Victor is forced to share Yuuri’s attention with another, and Phichit isn’t the most experienced of travellers; but despite the learning curve he is eager to move forward and eager to help, not afraid to carry his own weight. Yuuri and Phichit (and, by extension but to a lesser degree, Victor) catch on like a house on fire, so he is almost a bit disappointed when they reach Phichit’s destination, knowing that this is where they would part.

The water mage’s home is large and outdated, sprawling across acres of land with architecture that seems like it was constructed centuries prior. Unnecessary towers and spirals are littered with statues of what look like gargoyles mid-roar, spotted with patches of moss and grime, showcasing its age and lack of care by its owner.

There is something else, too, and Victor can only barely sense it, the tips of his fingers buzzing from the unexpected magical energy. It couldn’t be from the water mage; it’s much too ancient, and he’s certainly encountered it before. But it’s been such a long time, he cannot put a name to it. So he lets it go.

“How _gothic,”_ Victor criticises atop his horse, squinting up at the estate with an unimpressed grimace. “Gothic, by the way, is _so_ last century. Would the ‘most powerful magic-user in all of Hasetsu’ live a total downer of a house like this?”

Phichit, now comfortable enough with Victor to begin a back-and-forth, says, “Oh, shut up.”

“Well, this is it,” Yuuri says uneasily, absently stroking his horse’s mane. “Are you sure this is where you need to be, Phichit?”

“Positive,” Phichit affirms. Then, with a clap on Yuuri’s shoulder and a thankful nod Victor’s way, he says, “Thank you so much, both of you. I couldn’t have gotten to where I am without your help.”

“Don’t sell yourself too short,” is Victor’s blunt yet truthful reply, and he nods back at Phichit approvingly. “We hope you find what you’re looking for.”

And with that, Phichit and his pony move forward, into the estate’s entrance, its sharp, metal gates open for visitors to pass through.

“I guess it’s just us again,” Yuuri says, watching Phichit’s back as he rides away.

“Yep,” Victor agrees, also looking at the retreating figure.

“I’ll miss having him around, it was nice having another person watching our backs.”

“Uh-huh.”

Together they watch Phichit’s shrinking form, nearly reaching the entrance of the estate.

The entrance of the large, eerie estate. Alone.

Slowly, Victor and Yuuri turn their heads to face each other. For Victor, his mind is already set.

“Are we…?” Yuuri says.

Victor is definitely not happy about this. “Yeah,” he sighs, already goading his horse forward.

When they reach Phichit, Yuuri at one side and Victor at the other, Phichit is already smiling a huge, overjoyed, expectant grin.

 

\-----

 

After leaving their steeds outside and searching the empty rooms of the empty estate, they find the water mage waiting for them at the end of a long and fully stocked banquet table that stretches the entirety of the estate’s dining hall, swirling a glass of red wine between his fingers. It’s nonchalant, absolutely staged, and nearly brings Victor to the floor. A first impression should _never_ take this much effort.

 _Most powerful magic-user my ass,_ Victor thinks, his level of pettiness knowing no bounds. The mage has caked-in raccoon eyes, baby blue skin, and a geometrical haircut that somehow keeps its shape despite the his perpetual wetness. Victor is immediately unimpressed.

Even after the three of them arrange themselves a position that is both respectful and close enough to be seen in his peripheral vision, the water mage continues to stare serenely into the depths of his wine glass. Phichit clears his throat, and the sound reverberates across the bare, high-ceiling dining hall like a wave.

“Oh!” the mage says, jerking his head up in the most non-nonchalant manner possible. Victor rolls his eyes. “Sorry, didn’t see you there. Is there something you need?”

With a deep breath, Phichit takes a step forward and says, “You are the water mage of the east, correct? Georgi Popovich? I am Phichit Chulanont, and I’ve come to ask for your help.”

Phichit explains to Georgi his plight with a respectful grace Victor would not have expected from a humble farmer. His voice does not waver despite his constant fretting throughout the week about what he should say during this moment. His back is straight and his shoulders are straight, just as how Yuuri told him to. Victor, despite himself, puffs a bit in pride.

Georgi listens with his hand propping his head up and his other hand still holding his glass, eyes half-lidded and bored. He looks at Phichit like he is below him. Victor seethes.

(Victor also realizes that he and Georgi are not too different from one another, that two months ago Victor had been the same, uncaring and unconcerned for everything except what he deemed interesting, and he seethes even more.)

“So please,” Phichit says, “whatever you can, anything at all; please help me and my people. You are the only one who can.”

 _Flattery can get you anywhere,_ Victor had told Phichit as his own parting advice. Seeing how Phichit had taken it to heart makes Victor duck his head to hide a pleased smile.

Georgi begins to stroke his chin thoughtfully and hums. “Hm. A easy fix, from what I hear,” he says after a full minute of this. “I can conjure a steady rain pour over your village for a month or two during the growing season; that should be enough to get you back on track. But what do I get out of this?”

Phichit winces. He gives Georgi a rough estimate and admits, “We don’t have much money.” Yuuri reaches over to put a steadying hand on the ball of his shoulder. “But what we can give you, we will.”

Georgi leans back in his chair, disappointed, and says, “‘Not much’ is not enough, I’m afraid.” A bejeweled hand is already up to dismiss them, and Phichit’s face crumples. Victor, who had known from the start that this would happen, feels anger coil in his gut.

“I hope you find another solution. All the best,” Georgi says, and he goes to swipe his finger in what must be the beginning of a spell to get them and the overflowing dining table to disappear (Victor would know; he had done the same countless times) —

That is, until his eyes lock onto Victor’s figure, who had purposefully placed himself the furthest away from the mage’s sight.

“Oh,” he breathes, something like awe in his tone, “you’re — hm.”

Georgi studies him for a moment with a note of both reverence and shock before saying, still staring at Victor, “Hm. You know, maybe I _shall_ help you after all.”

“You will?” Phichit says, hope widening his eyes and lifting his voice. Yuuri watches the scene beside him, the silent exchange between magic-users thickening the air in the dining hall.

“Of course,” Georgi says, and Victor does not like the way he narrows his eyes, calculated. “A trade, perhaps.”

Victor stares back, stone-faced. Phichit asks, “What do you need help with?”

“Considering the...nature of your party,” he says, “it wouldn’t be much of a challenge for you to get rid of a certain annoyance that has been pestering me for the past month or so. Comes around this time every once and awhile. It would like my estate to itself, and I can’t possibly agree to that. I’ve only been able to fend it off whenever it stops by, but never fully get rid of it.”

“And what would that annoyance be?” Yuuri asks, skeptical.

Georgi stands, face grim, and for a reason Victor cannot fathom, the dark pigment around his eyes now make him look less like a buffoon and more of a skeleton. Victor, for the first time since entering the estate, feels threatened.

“A dragon,” he says simply, and he pauses to let his request sink in.

“A —” Yuuri says, words not quite registering, “a dragon.”

“A dragon?” Phichit repeats. “Like, an actual flying, fire-breathing, city-destroying _dragon?”_

Georgi nods in confirmation.

“What dragon?” Victor demands. But he knows; he already hears the beating of wings getting louder and louder, can feel its eternal heat emanating from its beating heart, rolling over him in ancient, sweltering waves that would be noticeable even to the least magically inclined. This was what he had felt, what was missing. He immediately regrets not bringing it up sooner.

“That one,” Georgi says, pointing upward.

And in no time at all, the high-ceiling dining hall is a no-ceiling dining hall, because there is now a dragon above them instead of a roof. From snout to tail it’s as long as the banquet table, and its wingspan as wide as the hall itself. The sun glistens against its innumerable scales, its color the same as the wallowing flames wafting around its nostrils.

It breathes. It roars. Yuuri already has his bow cocked and ready.

“Shit,” is all Victor says.

 

\-----

 

In the end, it could have gone better. Victor doesn't remember much of it, only that Yuuri’s aim with his bow was razor-sharp, and had looked especially heroic when he took the final shot to the beast’s heart. They won, they must have won, and Victor will be content with knowing that whatever’s left of Georgi’s estate will forever be singed from top to bottom with dragonfire.

But right now he is not content, he can't bear to be. He's actually hurting quite a bit; his entire chest cavity feels like it’s caved in on itself. He had forgotten how painful it could get when fighting a mythical beast of this magnitude — especially when, in the same room, there is someone you want to protect.

“Victor?” Victor hears Yuuri say somewhere, his voice carrying over the audible chaos of burning wood and collapsing infrastructure. Thundering footsteps approach him until Yuuri appears in his vision, dropping to his knees by Victor’s side. “Victor, by the gods, _Victor.”_

“Did we win?” Victor gurgles through the haze of pain and decreasing lucidity, just to be sure.

“I — yeah, Victor, we won.” Yuuri sounds both terrified and guilty. Two emotions he should never experience, as he has no reason to. “You didn’t. You didn’t need to do that.”

“And what did I do?” Victor slurs, because he no longer remembers. Very concerning. He must have hit his head from the fall.

“You.” Yuuri sighs, uneven, and Victor frowns. “I was going through my quiver, and I wasn’t looking, and you pushed me out of the way and the dragon whacked you with its tail on your stomach and you were like a ragdoll as you flew across the dining hall I thought you were _dead_ and — you didn’t need to do that.”

If Victor could he’d sit up and fix Yuuri with an honest stare. “Well if that’s the case, of course I did.”

Phichit, who despite his humble upbringing had proven to be very level headed under pressure and knew his way with a sword, kneels beside Yuuri. “You took quite the beating there, buddy,” he tells Victor.

“Good to know,” Victor says, as dryly as he can with blood dribbling down the side of his mouth.

Georgi, who Victor begrudgingly admits to be a very capable water evoker, also makes an appearance. “I must thank you all,” he says, staring down at Victor’s prone form with an intrigued glint in his eye. “That dragon has been pestering me for months, you’ve done me a great service for helping me get rid of it once and for all.”

“You’ve been dealing with _that,”_ Yuuri asks, pointing at the now dead dragon’s steaming corpse, “for a few months?”

“It has been a pretty rough time for me as of late,” Georgi answers.

“And our deal?” Phichit inquires.

“I will certainly uphold my end of the bargain,” Georgi confirms. “I’ll even throw in some dragon scales as well, now that I’ve come across an abundance of them. I hear they go for a good amount in the right places.”

“Um,” Victor says, still very much on the floor.

“Oh, don’t you worry, Master Nikiforov,” Georgi tells him, respect weaving through his reverent tone. “I’ll have you sent to the best healers this side of Hasetsu, you’ll be back on your feet in no time. It is the least I can do, for all that you have done for us.”

With the promise of safety now concrete, Victor lets himself slip under the dark haze of unconsciousness, the last thing he registers being Yuuri voice as he asks Georgi how he knew Victor’s name.

 

\-----

 

When Victor wakes up he is tucked in a bed inside a small, claustrophobic room he does not recognize, but he does not panic because Yuuri is sitting by his bedside. He’s dozing off, head drifting to the side as he struggles to keep himself awake. Victor’s heart nearly tips over with how much it is overfilled from the sight.

“Ah,” Yuuri says when he catches Victor staring up at him, “you’re awake.”

“I am,” Victor says. Instead of a blunt pain across his chest he feels a numb nothingness, a feeling that will soon give way to recovery depending on how good a cleric that tended to him had been. “Where are we?”

Yuuri looks terrible. One of his arms is in a sling and there are dark bags under his eyes, topped off by messy, unkempt hair that needs a good wash. He sports a prickly stubble, smells of sweat, and Victor has never felt more welcomed by a sight in his life.

“We’re in the capital,” Yuuri answers and, well. Isn’t that a surprise.

“They let you into the capital,” Victor states. He tests the mobility of his fingers by opening and closing his hands into fists.

“They were more than willing to let me inside,” Yuuri says, “after they saw the company I was in.”

When Victor exhales his breath comes out as shaky and he feels, somehow, that if he makes the wrong move, he might just be losing something very important. “And by company,” he says, “you mean…”

“You,” Yuuri tells him. His eyes give nothing away. “The sorcerer of legend, Victor Nikiforov. Everyone here worships you with a near god-worthy reverence, you know. It must be pretty unbearing. I can see why you prefer the countryside.”

“Yuuri,” Victor says to him. But he doesn’t know what to say.

When Victor doesn’t continue, Yuuri looks down to his hand on his lap and says, “I feel like an absolute idiot. I’ve been told stories about you since I was a kid. Everyone has. You’ve been missing for nearly a century but you’re still known throughout the kingdom as the greatest sorcerer who’s ever lived. By the gods, when Mari and I were kids we’d pretend to be the heroes of stories our parents would read to us, and the amount of times I would pretend to be you were endless. How did I not connect the dots earlier?”

“You’re not an idiot,” Victor denies. “I should have told you.”

“You’re not obligated to tell me anything, but. It would have been nice to know. To have heard it from you.”

“I didn’t mean to hide anything.” And he hadn’t — at least, not when he realized why being in Yuuri’s presence gave Victor a stirring calmness in his chest he hasn’t ever felt since he was last held by his mother. “I just — I don’t know. I haven’t had to introduce myself in centuries.”

This is true, but it isn’t the whole truth. The whole truth is, merely, that Victor enjoys every bit of Yuuri: his dark hair, the tip of his nose that easily burns in the sun, the sound of his voice right after he wakes up in the morning. His bravery, his soft smiles, his unrelenting self. But what Victor enjoys most about Yuuri is how Yuuri treats Victor — how he doesn’t treat him any more or any less. How he sees Victor for how he is, not what he is.

Victor didn’t want to change anything about how Yuuri saw him. Because of this, he kept quiet. He is too much of a coward to admit this out loud, and he is too much of an idiot to be able to put any of this, his convoluted reasoning, into words. So he does neither.

“Centuries,” Yuuri echos. Then: “Well, that explains the thinning hairline.”

Victor squawks in displeasure — _“Excuse_ me?” — but secretly he is cheered by both the sudden appearance of levity and Yuuri’s near endless capacity to forgive.

Yuuri gives him a small grin. The warm sunset shining through the room’s lone window lights him up from behind, the orange glow laid out like a stage set with Yuuri at the center, and he seems to Victor, now, as he always has, like the very best of people.

“How long have I been out?” Victor asks when he finds his breath again. Despite no longer feeling the brunt pain of a dragon tail’s momentum in his chest there is still a heaviness to his limbs, a lead-like weight to his arms as he lifts one up to scratch at his puffy eyes.

“Nearly a week,” Yuuri tells him, and he has to forcefully push Victor down when he frantically sits up.

“A _week?”_ Victor sputters. “That long? That’s _coma status,_ what the _hell.”_

“You were really bad off, Victor. The clerics had a lot of work cut out for them. What, did you think I’d leave you behind?”

“But Yuuri, your sister —”

“I couldn’t go to troll territory without you,” Yuuri cuts in, sharp. He places a hand over one of Victor’s. “I can’t. Not after all this. I checked with another sorceress I’ve met while roaming the capital; Mari’s still alive and well, she hasn’t been hurt. But I am _not_ going to end this journey if you’re not with me. No way in hell.”

This is the first time since Victor took his hand in that faraway time at the Katsuki manor they have touched. Victor closes his eyes for a moment before saying, his voice an unattractive croak, “Thank you for waiting for me.”

Yuuri nods before looking down at his hand, still atop of Victor’s. “Sorry,” he says, pulling away with an apologetic grimace, and Victor wants Yuuri to touch him everywhere. How do you put that into words? Here, here, and here, the dip of his lip and the curve of his spine. His skin. It’s cold to the touch, and Victor has always associated Yuuri with soft sun and warm eyes.

“It’s fine,” he says instead, following a long, fractured crack running across the ceiling with a glance.

“So...” Yuuri trails off, and Victor focusses back on him. “Tell me something about yourself,” he says.

Victor stares at him. “You said you know who I am,” he states.

“Well, I’ve heard stories _about_ you,” Yuuri clarifies. “And I’d hope that after the past couple of months I at least could pick your face out in a crowd or, I don’t know, know your favorite color. Blue, right?”

“Right,” Victor says faintly.

“But these are all things others have told me, or what I’ve inferred, and. I guess what I’m trying to say is. Well, I’d like to hear something from you for a change. If that’s alright.”

 _I want to know you,_ Yuuri had said.

 _This is dangerous,_ Victor thinks.

 _Let him in,_ a part of him pleads.

“I,” Victor says. He breathes in, slow. And then he says, “I was born with a prophecy foretelling of my future. But what I remember most from my childhood is how safe I felt when my mother smoothed her hand over my hair.”

Yuuri settles in his seat, and he listens.

 

\-----

 

It’s been years since Victor last visited the capitol, and it hasn’t changed a bit. The slight scent of manure, the odd fashion trends, a clear dichotomy from the rich and poor: it’s almost like Victor has woken up a century in the past. But he heeds no mind to the small inconveniences he had let drive him out from the capitol’s allure years ago, instead focussing on putting one foot forwards, taking his first steps since waking up from his apparent magic-induced coma.

“Phichit left a couple of days ago to report back to his village,” Yuuri says as he leads them back to the sorceress he had been in contact with, watching Victor with concern. “He wished us safe travels and promised to write. Georgi, I think, is still here, but I haven’t seen him in a while. Seemed busy with something. Hey, are you alright?”

And Victor _is_ alright. Despite the initial numbness of his legs, he doesn’t at all feel like he had been bashed to the side by a dragon’s tail. He must remember to track down the cleric responsible for this and thank them, as they’ve done a wonderful job. “Right as rain, dear,” he says. “Just need some sun after being indoors for so long. Now, who is the sorceress who’s been helping you while I was incapacitated?”

“Mila Babicheva. Supposedly, she’s been to troll territory. She says that she knows you? And that she can portal us there, but you’d have to owe her a favor.”

“That sounds like her,” Victor mutters, in thought. “Well, alright then.”

They get to Mila’s quarters soon after. Victor, who is averse to owing debts even to those he considers friends such as Mila, hopes that whatever she asks of him doesn’t send him into another journey through Hasetsu. He’s had enough of those to last a lifetime, even one as infinite as his.

From the outside Mila’s small townhouse is small but quaint, and there are even some pastel-colored flowers planted in a window box next to the front entrance. Not at all what Victor would have expected from the fiery young sorceress he had first met three centuries prior, filled to the brim with potential despite her lack of formal training at the time.

The last he saw her was around the same time as his self-exile to the woods. Such a long time ago. He remembers enjoying her company, at least.

Mila greets both of them at the door, Yuuri with a friendly side hug and Victor with a, “Wow, you cut your hair. The last time I saw you it went down to your waist.”

“A while ago,” Victor says.

“You had long hair?” Yuuri asks, curious.

“A century or two ago. But it became a hassle to take care of.”

“Shame,” Mila says. “I probably could have used it.”

“What for?”

“Oh, who could say,” she dismisses vaguely. And that was that.

“I can portal you two to troll territory shortly,” she says as she leads them to her second floor. “Yuuri has already caught me up on his situation. How noble of you, Victor, to help someone in need like this.”

“It’s really not,” Victor disagrees.

“Yes it is,” Yuuri disagrees.

“Quite,” Mila says. Then, in a language long dead, says to Victor, “It’s also very out of character for the man you have become. May I ask why?”

Victor clenches his jaw. “No secrets,” he snaps, refusing to switch tongues. “To answer your question, I have business with the trolls.”

Yuuri shifts from one foot to the other and doesn’t correct him despite knowing the truth, despite knowing the real reason Victor has taken upon himself this cross-kingdom adventure.

“Hm.” She looks between the two of them, and understanding lights up her assessing gaze. She has always been very perceptive. In the dead language she tells him, “Well. I hope this turn of events has led you out of hiding and back to helping people. You’ve been away for so long.”

Victor thinks about it. Concludes that he will think about it later. “How long are these stairs?” he says in lieu of a response.

One long trek up a flight of stairs later, they finally reach the second floor. It’s much more spacious than the ground floor, perfect for portal making. The room itself is quite bare, furnished with only a small but well-stocked workspace including a large cauldron at the side, as well as a wooden dining table pushed to the corner nearest to the stair entrance.

A dining table that is currently occupied by another person.

Georgi the water mage, with his stupid geometrical haircut and stupid blue skin and stupid raccoon eyes, sips inconsequentially on an out-of-place goblet encrusted with gemstones.

“What the fuck,” Victor, who hadn’t anticipated the unwanted company, says.

“What the fuck,” Mila, who also hadn’t anticipated the unwanted company, says.

“Georgi?” Yuuri, the most level headed out of the three of them, says.

“It has begun,” Georgi, to Mila, says. He must have been waiting there for a while, as there is already a small puddle circumferencing the dining table. If he’s surprised at Victor and Yuuri’s appearance, he doesn’t show it.

Mila blinks. Absently brushes a lock of red hair behind her ear. “I thought it was supposed to start tomorrow?”

“We’re ahead of schedule,” Georgi says, placing his goblet down. Upon further inspection, his skin is a paler blue than Victor remembers, and the set of his mouth is grim. From nerves, Victor reckons. But he doesn’t know what for.

“You two know each other?” Yuuri asks.

“We share similar interests,” Mila answers without looking at him, cautiously stepping towards where Georgi lounges. “What do you mean we’re ahead of schedule?”

“I mean that the plan is going into motion a week early,” Georgi answers, and Victor only now realizes that he is outfitted in full mage battle armor. “Our part is going to start in about a couple of minutes or so.

“And by ‘our’,” Georgi adds, eyeing Victor and Yuuri curiously, “I’m assuming that means all of us? It’s good to see you back on your feet again, Master Nikiforov.”

“I don’t — what the hell is going on?” Yuuri interjects. He’s backing away from the two of them, wariness in his face and movements. “I thought we were going to troll territory.”

Mila takes a deep breath, now looking as tense as Georgi does. “Change of plans,” she tells them. “We have something we need to do.”

“‘We’,” Victor repeats. He narrows his eyes. “I didn’t know that there was a clause in our agreement.”

“This wasn’t supposed to happen today. Something’s come up, and we could really use you.”

 _Use you._ That was the exact wrong thing for her to say. “I am not here to fix your problems,” he says, letting his anger hide the hurt he feels.

“This isn’t about _us,”_ Mila denies. “Victor, this is about the entire _kingdom.”_

 _“What_ is?” Yuuri interrupts, even more confused than before.

“There’s going to be a small explosion down the street,” Georgi answers him. “And then there will be a riot. And then, probably, some fighting. Right here, in the capital. And we’re in charge of getting as many civilians out of the danger as possible. After we do that, we infiltrate the main headquarters of the Plisetsky family, find documentation of all its members throughout Hasetsu, take it, and help out as much as we can until it’s all over.”

 _“Plisetsky —”_ Victor shakes his head to clear his thoughts, his mind racing at the sudden turn of events. “Would it be rude to ask _why?”_

Georgi says, “Because for far too long, Hasetsu has been plagued with a bleak underground that has seeped its influence throughout the entire kingdom over the course of centuries. The Plisetsky family is a plague that we’ve only recently found out intends to, in a week, stage a coup to overthrow the royal family and gain complete control. But now, that week has shortened to one hour. And we need to stop them, because no one else can.”

“Oh,” Yuuri says, realization dawning on him right as it does for Victor. “You’re with Lilia.”

Mila says, “You know Lilia?”

“We saved her grandson from some thugs or something,” Yuuri says. “Wait, the Plisetsky takedown is today? I thought it would be later.”

“Well this is wonderful,” Georgi jumps in. “The more the merrier. I’m aware, Master Nikiforov, that these situations are a specialty of yours.”

Victor’s nails dig into his palms as he says, “They used to be.” He’s trying and failing to control his temper, and he curses under his breath as he begins the descent back from where he came. “Yuuri, let’s go.”

“Go? Wait, Victor —”

“You’re running away,” Mila accuses, impassive. When he turns towards the group again she crosses her arms. Sometime between Georgi’s announcement and now she'd magicked her own armor onto her person.

“Don’t you dare try guilt trip me,” he tells her. “I’ve chosen what I want and it doesn’t involve any of this. You don’t get to use me. No one does, not anymore.”

“This isn’t about _using_ anybody!” She throws her hands up into the air, the metal of her gauntlets glinting in the open sunlight. “I’m sorry if that wasn’t a good choice of words, that wasn’t what I was trying to say. This is about helping people. You used to do that. You used to be really good at it, too, before you ran away, the same way you’re running now.”

“I’ve done my part,” Victor says. “I’ve done my part countless times, as I was prophesied to do. I’ve saved this god forsaken kingdom more times than any kingdom should need saving. And if that wasn't enough, then maybe we should take the hint and take a step back.”

Mila, ferociously intimidating with her armor on, says, “Hasetsu is my home. It has not always been good to me, but that doesn’t change the fact that this is the land I was born in, the land that houses the people I love. Turning my back on _my home_ isn’t an option. It never has been, at least not for me.”

She takes a step towards him, and Victor nearly takes a step back.

Mila’s jaw is set and her eyes tell of a story that stretches far beyond anyone in this room. Victor recognizes the burning heat he had initially seen when she was younger, but alongside it is a fierce, time-aged loyalty that cannot be sweltered by the coldest of winters, an unstoppable wave that makes Victor shudder.

It reminds him of himself, from before. When he was younger, when he had a purpose. Before he became a recluse too embittered with the world to care for it. Suddenly, there is a pang in his gut. He almost feels sick.

“So yeah, sorry to say this, but I can’t take a damn _hint._ Because unlike you,” she snaps, “I haven’t given up. And I don’t need a fucking prophecy to prove that I’m worth a damn.”

Victor stands there, balled fists at his sides, letting Mila’s words hit like unrepentant blows to the stomach. His eyes sting.

“Mila,” he hears Yuuri say, but Victor is too ashamed to look at him. “You can’t force him to do anything he doesn’t want to do. We can’t force _anyone_ to.”

Mila scratches her scalp in aggravation. “I know, but —” She stops and forces out a harsh, wet sigh. Victor realizes, now, that Mila is scared.

The air in this room is stifling. Victor desperately wants to leave.

Yet his feet are rooted to the ground. Like Mila said, he’s running away, the way he’s been doing since he found that he could. Now, something tethers him, rendering him unable to leave. Maybe he’s finally learning to be useful again, like how everyone has wanted him to be for the past century he’s been in hiding. Or is it duty? Is it guilt? Or is it —

Yuuri says to him, his voice collected, “Victor. Head out without me. Find my sister and tell her that I’m okay, yeah? That this was all for her.”

Still unable to properly look his way, Victor says, “And what about you?”

Yuuri shrugs. “This thing, with the Plisetskys...it’s bigger than all of us, isn’t it? Gotta do my part. Or, at least, as much as I can with this,” he says, and he flaps his still-slinged arm like a bird, “still out-of-commision. Just — just know that you always have a choice. Gods know you of all people deserve it.”

Victor knows that. He’s been knowing that. That’s why he left when he did, after years of obligation to a land that treated him as an infinite resource instead of a man; he chose to.

But along the way he must have forgotten that to help others out of the good of your heart instead of the promise of a prophecy has always also been an option, too.

Victor, egregiously, sighs. “Fuck,” he says to Mila, who perks up at his exclamation. This is the most he’s ever cursed since that time he nearly split the entire kingdom’s bedrock in half. _“Fuck._ I can’t believe I’m doing this shit again. Fuck. Okay. Where do you want me.”

The look Mila gives him is radiant. She is far from the fresh-faced sorceress he used to know, but beautiful just the same. “It’s good to have you back,” she tells him.

As he is about to respond, most likely with a disparaging comment of two, someone rumbles up the stairs with heavy, boot-weighted steps. Victor looks back at to see Yuri Plisetsky, covered head to toe in black leather, with an erratic, winded expression that makes him seem much older. His hair is a wild ponytailed mess and, strangely enough, there is a brown falcon perched on his shoulder, as normal as can be, watched the scene in front of it with beady, assessing eyes.

“Another change of plans,” Yuri pants, gripping one of the stairway handrails as he catches his breath. “After the signal you guys are coming with me to the Plisetsky headquarters; it’s protected by multiple layers of wards, a small army of armed, specialized mercenaries, and is currently rigged to the fucking brim with explosives.”

“Wait,” Georgi says. “I thought _we_ were going to blow up something.”

“If we don’t get there in time, my father is going to blow up _everything.”_

“Well,” Mila says, motioning to Yuuri and Victor as she steps by Yuri’s side, “you’re in charge, kid. Lead the way.”

“Wait,” Yuuri, understandably disoriented, interjects, “hold up. Just. Everyone slow down a bit.”

The near shoehorned-sounding scene finally catches up to Victor. He sees red. “You animals,” he accuses, scandalized. “You roped him into your plans? He’s a kid.”

Mila tells him, “A kid who is already shaping up to be one of the most brilliant strategists this kingdom has ever seen.”

Georgi adds, “A kid who thought up our entire plan in the first place.”

“I might still be a kid but I can still kick your ass,” Yuri says. “Apparently you’re a big deal. Tough shit. I don’t care who or what you are; I can still get in an ass kicking.”

The falcon cocks its head to the side, cooly unruffled by the cacophony it has waded into.

Yuuri laughs, a note of hysteria hanging off the end of it, and when Victor turns to him he looks both overwhelmed and exhilarated. Victor’s heart beats. Out of everything, he prays to every god he knows of for that look on Yuuri’s face to survive the afternoon.

“By the gods,” Yuuri says, winded, “I really wish I had mobility in both arms for this.”

And that’s when everything explodes.

 

\-----

 

Victor, after reorienting himself, coughs and shakes his head to get rid of the ash on his hair. Mila’s townhouse had suffered a decent rattle and a good portion of her wall is gone, but other than that everything seems fine. He says, “I wasn’t aware of how _explosive_ that was going to be. I’m surprised this house is still intact.”

But he is alone. At first this troubles him, but he soon realizes that this is because everyone else had gone down the stairs and out the house without him.

“Hurry the fuck up,” Yuri yells, a story down. His falcon caws in his shoulder, sounding as amused a falcon can be.

Victor is abruptly hit with how old he is. “I’m way too old for this,” he says to no one.

But he heads down the stairs to the rest of his party anyway, because that is what he chooses to do.

 

\-----

 

The scene around them is as chaotic as Victor thought it would be. Frazzled civilians exit their homes to look for the perpetrator of the offending noise, with national guards already scurrying to investigate. The bombed-out area — a butcher shop Mila has informed Victor that is actually a cover up haunt for the Plisetskys — is a smoking crisp when they pass by.

“I’m so nervous,” Georgi hisses as they head over to the Plisetsky headquarters. “Look, I’m sweating.” He wrings his hands together despite them all moving at a relatively intermediate jog.

“Isn’t that, like, your natural disposition?” Yuuri asks, innocent enough. “I mean, I don’t know much about genasi physiology, but I thought that water genasi were always wet.”

“Fuck, you guys are annoying,” Yuri complains. “And loud.”

“Has anyone ever told you how rude you are?” Victor wonders.

“I’d like to see you try,” Yuri counters, conveniently forgetting who he is talking to.

“Uh, guys?” Mila intervenes. “We’re here.”

The building she’s taken them to is less of a building and more of a heavily guarded fort, very much a blight spot when compared to the homely residentials and shops it neighbors. Metal barbed fences circumference it, their height so tall the encompassed building is barely visible from where the group stands. Kind of overkill, considering the amount of wards that also protect it. Victor, despite being a moderate distance away, can feel their magical energy pulsing in the air, barring anyone from entering more effectively than any fence could.

There are a lot of them, and by the feel of it they are all very advanced spells. But it’s nothing Victor can’t deal with, no matter how out of practice he is.

“Victor,” Mila says to him. There’s a hint of mirth at the corner of her smile. “I think it’s time for me to call in that favor.”

Victor, already very much done with everything, rolls his eyes. “Let me handle this,” he says as he pushes his sleeves back. And he does.

 

\-----

 

“Damn, this place is loaded,” Victor says as the party watches the stream of Plisetsky’s men burst through the various rooms of the building and into the grand foyer to greet them. All of them are, like the thugs Victor had encountered all those weeks ago, well-muscled and well-armed, and Victor has decided that yes, there is definitely strength in numbers.

“So I count about fifty of them,” Yuuri says, “and about six of us? One of which is a kid, another is a bird, and another has his dominate arm broken and in a sling. How do you guys like those odds?”

“Not ideal,” Georgi admits.

“No one asked for you useless opinion,” Yuri snarls at him, despite Yuuri having just asked for Georgi’s opinion.

“So, what?” Mila snarks. Her gaze rests easy despite the increasing population density of the room and the thug’s quick approach. Her shoulders are back and her stance is ready, and Victor can feel the power emanating from her very being. “Are you all gonna stand here? Because I’m not.”

She mumbles a spell and pulls an open palm back before pushing it out in front of her, like she’s slicing through water. Rays of multicolored light shoot out from her hand, travel through the air, and into the foreheads of eight of the thugs closest to the party. They all still mid-charge before pandemonium ensues.

One bursts into flames. Another melts entirely until nothing but a puddle of sizzling acide remains. A particularly unlucky one turns to stone. All of them fall.

Victor knows this spell; he had been the one to create it. It’d taken him centuries to develop and eventually master. No other sorcerer — his apprentices, his associates, his enemies — could ever cast it. Even more would refuse to try, as one wrong move could bring the rays’ destinations to the caster themself instead of the intended target.

Mila has done it with ease. _And_ with one hand, something Victor had never been able to do even in his prime.

He realizes, then, if there were to be a magic-user to surpass him in both power and legend, it would be her.

Inspired by Mila’s display, the falcon caws and shakes its wings out in anticipation. Yuuri unsheathes his shortsword and points it forward. Georgi gets even wetter.

Victor breathes. In, out. Even though he hadn’t missed the violence, it is the thrill of the fight that makes his blood sing and his dormant power praise its gratitude for the chance to be used.

“Fuck,” Yuri says, impressed, before crouching down to take out a number of small daggers from his boot, each one dripping with poison, “what a way to start a fight.”

 

\-----

 

“Is that the last of them?” Victor asks no one in particular. He cracks his neck and rolls his shoulders back, a bit lightheaded from the impromptu revolution he and Yuuri have unfortunately found themselves in the middle of. The foyer is littered with the prone forms of Plisetsky thugs, and _damn,_ Victor was in a coma less than a day ago. Can’t he have a break for once?

Behind him, Yuri Plisetsky taps his shoulder and gives Victor an unimpressed glare when Victor jumps and exclaims, _“Holy_ — where the hell did you come from?”

“The shadows,” Yuri replies, tone even. Victor doesn’t know if he’s being serious or not. “You and Katsuki follow me; Mila and Georgi will hold up here for any stragglers.”

Across the room, Mila perks up at the mention of her name and waves them off. “Go blow shit up,” she calls out, giving them a bloody thumbs up.

“Don’t actually do that,” Georgi adds, wringing his hair out after a particularly wet spell he had casted.

Victor and Yuuri, doing an amazingly proficient job at holding his own despite his arm still being in a sling, follow Yuri as he explains, “The room full of explosives and all of the Plisetsky paperwork should be down the main hall. And, if my intel’s right,” his fists clench at his sides, and Victor swears that even the falcon puffs up in anticipation, “my father should be there, too.”

“So if everything goes to plan,” Yuuri surmises, “we get the paperwork, stop everything from exploding, and you get...revenge over your father.”

Yuri’s eyes narrow in anticipation. “Oh, I will get more than revenge,” he corrects, his voice vowing for violence.

“Great to know,” Yuuri says. The rest of the way down the hallway is saturated with uncomfortable silence, and the unspoken promises they all know runs in Yuri’s eager mind takes up the space that would usually be left for conversation.

Victor thinks back to the last time he and Yuri spoke to each other. What had the boy said he’d do to his father? Something about gushing blood and drinking it. By the gods. And Victor thought _he_ was dramatic.

 

\-----

 

“Er,” Yuuri says. With uncertainty, he watches the door Yuri had closed on their faces a few minutes before. “So the needed paperwork’s in my pocket and the room full of explosives has been dealt with. Can we, uh. Can we leave?”

Yuri’s falcon, making itself comfortable on Victor’s unwilling shoulder, squawks in what sounds like agreement.

On the other side of the door, a man screams in terror. On the other side of the door, Yuri laughs with glee.

“I’ll take that as a yes,” Victor tells the falcon, and with haste, he and Yuuri and the bird retrace their steps back the way they came.

 

\-----

 

A few hours later, Victor watches as Yuri Plisetsky tries to present to the king of Hasetsu the decapitated head of his father. He carries it by the hair like a bottom-heavy sack, morbidly swinging it back and forth like a pendulum whenever he moves his wrist. Expectedly, the king continues to refuse the gracious offer.

“The lot of you will forever go down in Hasetsu history as heroes,” the king says, discretely yet politely pinching his nose to escape the scent of blood and rotting head-flesh. “You will be celebrated in song for generations to come. Multiple babies will be named after you. But please, Mister Plisetsky, I don’t want...that.”

“Well, why the hell not?” Yuri shakes the head with vigor, and blood drips from its gaping wound onto the royal castle’s lush carpet. Victor winces in sympathy. That will be a pain to come off.

“This isn’t the outcome I had imagined,” someone says beside him, and Victor’s mouth drops when he turns to find Lilia, her hair bun tight as ever, watching with amusement as Yuri badgers the king without end. “Victorious? Yes. Watching my grandnephew harass the leader of the kingdom I’ve just helped save? Safe to say I didn’t consider that a possibility.”

“And where were you throughout everything?” Victor asks.

She looks at him from the corner of her eye, an eyebrow raised and a lip smirked.

“You know,” she says.

And suddenly, he does. _Of course._ “Oh, damn you,” he says, a delighted grin growing on his face. “You’re the falcon. Damn you.”

“I’m surprised you didn’t notice until now.”

“It’s been a busy day,” he says. But internally he agrees. The falcon and Lilia — how did he not realize? They had the same astute eyes.

“I must thank you,” she continues, “for aiding us on such short notice. If I may ask — what made you change your mind?”

Victor stretches out his hands and feels his magic pulse, how it makes his fingertips numb and his palms tingle.

“These hands will mold the fate of this realm,” his midwife had prophesied.

“Just know that you always have a choice,” Yuuri had promised him. A reminder, mostly. But one sorely needed.

“Who can resist that face?” he responds, motioning to Yuri as he unceremoniously drops the head onto the king’s lap. Georgi and Mila gasp. The king near faints. Yuri is ecstatic, his wide grin making him the most like his age Victor has seen.

After a servant wafts a pouch of smelling salts under the king’s nose and the head is removed from his lap and relocated somewhere more appropriate, the king rests his head on his palm, decidedly exhausted. However he abruptly picks his head up, alert, when he spots Yuuri in the shadowed corner of the throne room he’s been hiding in.

The king beckons him forwards with a finger. Victor gives Yuuri a nod of encouragement as he passes by. On the surface he seems calm, but Victor has spent enough time watching him to recognize the twitch of his fingers, the too-tight line of his mouth. He’s terrified.

The king is a man of few words, a trait uncommon to those of royal blood, at least in his experience. But it is a trait Victor admires, as the king gives Yuuri one look and simply says, “It seems like that Katsukis are less of a disgrace than I was led to believe.”

Blunt. Maybe that’s a better word.

“I.” Yuuri keeps his head bowed out of respect but his back straightens out of unease. “I’m not sure how to respond to that.”

“You don’t need to,” the king says. He gives Yuuri a once-over before decreeing, “Two centuries is a long enough time. Your sister will not be the only Katsuki allowed in the capital anymore. On behalf of the kingdom of Hasetsu, I, Yakov Feltsman, forgive you.”

It takes a while for Yuuri to respond. Without looking up, he says, “Thank you, Your Majesty,” before bowing and heading back to where he had originally stood. His face is expressionless. Victor longs to know what is on the other side of his mask.

Thankfully, the king is sidetracked by the others and Victor is able to slip to where Yuuri waits, blankly staring at the commotion the others are making. Victor waits for him to speak. He will not ask for anything more than Yuuri is willing to give.

“I didn’t do any of this to prove my worth to the crown,” he says at last. “It was the right thing to do, to help Yuri and the others.”

“It was,” Victor says.

“But it feels nice. I feel accomplished.”

“You’re allowed to feel that way.”

After a hesitant pause, Yuuri adds, “Thank you. For staying. You didn’t have to.”

The king has not yet noticed his presence, but Victor knows that he eventually will. That he and Yuuri will eventually leave for troll territory, and Yuuri will eventually reunite with his sister. That they will eventually part, maybe with a half-hearted promise to keep a distant correspondence, and Victor will eventually have to decide on either going back to his lonely cabin in the woods or to serve under another king after all these years swearing that he will never again do so. That eventually Yuuri will leave him, as he’s been, since the beginning, bound to eventually do.

“Oh,” Victor says, soaking up all the warmth Yuuri’s presence brings so he will have enough of it to remember Yuuri by when Victor is alone, again, like he was from the start, “but I did.”

 

\-----

 

“Good luck on your travels,” Mila tells them as she conjures up a portal, her hands waving through the air with arching gestures that remind Victor of the mountains he had lived by when he was young. She gives each of them a firm nod. “Please do come and visit again.”

“Don’t,” Yuri says, but he accepts Yuuri’s hug just the same.

Georgi takes out a handkerchief already damp with tears and begins the useless process of wiping his tear-stained, perpetually wet face. “I will never forget the kindness the two of you have shown me,” he promises wetly. “After our plight with the dragon I did not think our paths will cross again; little did I know that our brotherhood only grew stronger in our journey to save the entire kingdom! Please, Yuuri, Master Nikiforov — shake my hand to honor the eternal bond that will forever connect our hearts, no matter how great the distance between us will be.”

Yuuri obliges. Victor refuses. His response to Georgi’s dejected pout is, “Oh, look at the time.”

When the portal is ready and they all have finished saying their goodbyes, the two of them stand still, staring into the endless depths the portal flirtatiously swirls at them.

“You’re gonna end up right in front of troll territory,” Mila tells them. “I don’t know who or what is going to greet you. Be safe.”

Victor glances at the profile of Yuuri’s face, watches the determination glint in his eyes. “Are you ready?” he asks.

Yuuri fingers brush against Victor’s when he adjusts the hem of his tunic. “I’m ready,” he says, looking straight ahead.

He could play it off as an accident. Maybe it actually was.

But Victor will play it as a chance. Wordlessly, he takes Yuuri’s hand in his and squeezes. After a frozen moment, Yuuri intertwines their fingers and squeezes a reply.

Hand in hand, they step forward together.

 

\-----

 

The first thing that hits Victor is the smell: damp earth and the trodden musk of old, fallen leaves. It reminds Victor of his woods, but more pungent to the degree of unbearing. They’ve stepped into a forest dense with green, the late afternoon shining pinholes of perfectly geometric circles through the canopies of leaves and reaching the mossy dirt. The ambiance of singing birds and crying insects are a calming, familiar presence.

Yuuri pulls away to reach for his shortsword. Victor, having forgotten they were holding hands, instantly misses it.

“There,” Yuuri murmurs, hushed, and points ahead to what looks like an entrance made of fallen tree trunks, held together by sloppily twined rope. A large sign written in Giant is hung between the two largest trunks, swinging freely in the humid breeze.

“Any chance you know how to read Giant?” Yuuri asks.

“‘Land of the trolls,’” Victor reads out loud, absently thinking back to when he spent a year with a harmless yet uneasily intimidating nomadic tribe of storm giants. “Yuuri, this is it.”

Yuuri lets out a calming breath. “Okay,” he says, more to himself than to Victor. “Okay. She’s here. We’re here. We can do this.”

 _“You_ can do this,” Victor corrects. “I’m here for moral support.”

“Don’t downplay yourself. You have other talents,” Yuuri tells him, and Victor wants nothing else but to know how Yuuri’s smiling lip feels under his thumb. “You’re also very pretty.”

Yuuri decides then to start the trek forward, leaving Victor to gape at his retreating figure. He watches as the back of Yuuri’s neck, despite his confident stride, begins to turn a bright pink. Victor is absolutely floored.

“Are we really going to just walk in the front entrance?” Yuuri asks after Victor gathers his sense and catches up to him.

“What else are we going to do?” Victor counters.

“Scout the area for any threats? Make sure we aren’t blindly walking into a deathtrap, as we always do? Something smart, for once?”

“Well, if we’ve come this far _not_ doing that,” Victor says, “why should we start now?”

Yuuri ponders. “I don’t know how to respond to that,” he concludes.

“Exactly.”

And so they keep moving.

 

\-----

 

“Ah,” Victor says, rubbing the tender spot at the back of his head from where he had first hit the floor. “Who would have thought we’d be here again. In the dark. Alone. In separate cells.”

“Tragic,” Victor hears Yuuri say. His inflection is drier than the troll responsible for throwing Victor in this cell’s skin had been. Her hands had been calloused and scratched against the back of Victor’s neck as she roughhoused him through troll territory and into the resident jailhouse. You’d think that for inhabiting a particularly humid forest they’d have a better skin care regimen.

The cells, at least, are more hospitable than the last jail they had been incarcerated in; the infrastructure is made mostly of wood, warmed by stripes of light slipping through a small, barred window in his cell, over the crown of his hair and onto the dirt floor. Victor especially appreciates how he can spread his legs out without hitting the other wall.

So Victor does not complain, as he is wont to do. Instead, he talks. Though he still cannot see him, Yuuri’s voice is enough to buoy Victor throughout the boredom of facing the plain, wooden wall of a jail cell. Victor has found, throughout these two months, that talking to Yuuri is his most favorite pastime.

For the first hour they’ve been stuck here Yuuri had near made his voice hoarse calling for her sister, in the slight chance she was also in one of the other cells. But there was no reply, and Victor has done his best in keeping Yuuri’s mind off of the very high possibility that they’ve come all this way to bring back a body instead of his sister. He’s succeeded for the most part, and Yuuri, for now, is more calm than before.

“We’re lucky that we weren’t killed on the spot,” Victor muses.

“You call this lucky?” Yuuri’s voice responds. “We were sacked the second we walked past the entrance. Whose idea was that again?”

One of Victor’s more fonder memories, one that has been passed down generation to generation as a fable of great power and heroism, is the time he had toppled a particularly fortified camp in the span of an hour, freeing hundreds of detained servants of the Hasetsu crown — but maybe Yuuri hasn’t heard that story before. Or maybe he has, but has decided that the Victor who felled entire battalions is not the Victor who has gotten them captured by forest trolls with terrifying ease.

He’s right, Victor supposes. For better or for worse, he’s right.

Touched by this revelation, Victor leans against the wall Yuuri resides behind and presses his cheek against it. Something has changed for him that he cannot place a finger on, infinitesimally profound; he wonders if Yuuri can feel it, too.

Unfortunately, the moment is broken when they are escorted out of the cells, both of them being jerked up from the arm by a troll who is unpractically lanky, with longs that rivals Victor's height. He tells them in Giant, “King JJ has summoned you. Do not keep him waiting or else you will be swiveling over a fire by sundown.”

How excessive. Victor, already unimpressed, refuses to be affected by the novice fear tactic. “They’re taking us to the troll king,” Victor translates for Yuuri, who merely grimaces, and he lets himself be dragged through the dirt to wherever the troll king may be.

 

\-----

 

Jean-Jacques is exactly what Victor had expected him to be: loud, brash, and overly condescending without meaning to be. Thankfully he can speak Common, and Victor lets Yuuri take the forefront in favor of dusting himself off with annoyed vigor, ruffled by being dragged through dirt for an exorbitant amount of time. Victor can see the jailhouse from here; the troll must have taken the long way to the throne room, that bastard.

Jean-Jacques stares down at their kneeling figures from where he is perched on his large, ornate bone throne. He is massive and hunkering, his green skin leathered and covered by a fancy, in-trend coat and trousers pair that is not compatible to such a humid environment. “We trolls do not take kindly to intruders,” he starts. “The sole reason you are still alive is my compassion. Now, state your business, and be forewarned: I have no tolerance for liars.”

Apparently, the months of hardship and endless travelling has gotten to Yuuri, who, for once, doesn’t try to be polite. With grime on his face and an arm still in a sling, he snarls, “You kidnapped my sister, you asshole. I know she’s here. Take me to her before I shove an arrow through every orifice on your body.”

At Yuuri’s outburst Victor is, for the life of him, both mortified and aroused.

Jean-Jacques laughs off the threat. “You humans are so brash. So confident in strength you don’t have, demanding favors you cannot repay. It’s almost endearing.”

He goes on bragging about this and that, and after a minute or two Victor is sick of it. A second before he commits to setting the troll king on fire, he hears footsteps and the clinking of glass behind him, and turns around as Jean-Jacques says, “Ah, Mari! Back from the infirmary already?”

Victor finds a human woman kicking the throne room’s entrance door open wider, struggling to carry a large crate that is filled with various medical equipment that Victor notes, even from this distance, has seen better days. “Just dropping off some stuff off we could get fixed,” she reports before looking up from the crate and the scene in front of her.

At first she takes it all in stride, processing the situation with cool disinterest, before her gaze sets on the back of Yuuri’s head. It takes a moment for her to react, but when she does, her reaction is a raised eyebrow and a questioning, “Yuuri?”

Yuuri’s shoulders had stilled at the sound of his sister’s name coming out of Jean-Jacques's mouth, but he rises to his feet in a heartbeat when the woman calls his name. His eyes turn into saucers when he turns around and sees the woman at the entrance, and Victor belatedly notices the similarities of their features, how the woman shares the inviting warmth of Yuuri’s eyes.

“What a coincidence,” Victor needlessly muses as Yuuri speeds forward to envelope his sister in a crushing one-armed hug.

 

\-----

 

The infirmary is a modest, one-story building that’s filled mostly with beds pushed to the walls in an effort to compartmentalize the limited quarters. Victor and Yuuri sit on one of these beds, which would be a perfect size for a duo of trolls, but much too large for them. They watch as Mari tends to the infirmary’s lone patient, a young female troll sick with fever.

“The research I’ve been doing at the capital has been great; it’s exposed me to all types of races, people I never would have met if I’d stayed at home,” Mari explains as she leans over the troll girl’s bedside to smooth a damp towel down her forehead. “But I’ve never met let alone medically examined a troll before, since they’re so isolated to this side of the kingdom. How can I call myself a healer when I can’t heal everyone? So I decided I had to learn how. And here I am.”

“But we thought.” Yuuri spares a glance at Victor, like he has realized how presumptuous he had been. “We thought you were kidnapped by...them.”

“By who?”

“By, um. _Them.”_ With his slinged shoulder, Yuuri motions indiscreetly at Jean-Jacques, who had followed them back to the infirmary and is watching over the other troll with unprecedented concern. Jean-Jacques — who does have eyes — notices the gesture and snorts in contempt, crossing his arms.

Mari gets up to fetch a basin of water. Her movements are familiar and with a certain grace one could only have when walking on paths well-trodden. “Why the hell would you think that?” she asks as she fills the basin up with the room’s lone faucet.

“Because you just _left!”_ Yuuri throws a frustrated hand up, palm open, face pinched. “All of your stuff was still at home, your clothes, your whip, your goddamn headband. Mom and Dad are worried to death, and you didn’t think to tell them you were gone. How could you do that? I can’t _believe —_ all this time I thought you were in danger, that you could be hurt, and.” He sighs and drags his hand down his face. “But you’re safe. You’re okay. And I crossed the entire kingdom just to realize I was wrong.”

Mari sets the basin down, turns off the faucet, and straightens her back to give Yuuri a surprised blink. “Okay,” she says, “first of all, I sent a letter.”

Yuuri opens his mouth. Closes it. Says, “What?”

“I admit that I left pretty abruptly, and for that I’m sorry. But a couple of travellers had been passing by our village had the means to and were willing to portal me to troll territory. They were leaving by sundown so I had to act fast, and no one else I’d asked for help would even poke a troll with a stick. How could I pass on that opportunity? So I left, and I’m sorry, but as soon as I got here I swear I sent a letter.”

Yuuri sputters, “A — a letter? I didn’t get a letter.”

Mari snorts and picks the basin back up to bring it to the girl’s bedside. “Probably because you were off galavanting across Hasetsu with the first hot magic guy you meet. Which, okay, predictable, but please, stranger danger. Mom and Dad should have gotten my message by now. How long do you think letters take to be delivered?”

Yuuri blushes, and Victor is intrigued at the sight. “I left a couple of days after you did,” he tells her. “I was worried.”

Mari’s eyes soften. “Idiot,” she says, but her voice is fond. “I’m a big girl who can take care of myself. But thank you. And I’m proud of you, too. Who can say they travelled through the entire kingdom? Not many, I’d suspect.”

“Well,” Yuuri starts, “not the _entire_ kingdom —”

Victor cuts him off. “It’s a mighty achievement, yes. But — oh, I’m Victor, by the way. Said hot magic guy.”

Mari laughs and nods, ignoring Yuuri’s growing mortification. “Mari Katsuki. Thanks for looking after my brother.”

“It has been my pleasure,” Victor says. “Mari, may I ask you something? Nothing personal. I want to know how you got the trolls to trust you without them locking you up and dragging you around like raw meat.”

It’s Jean-Jacques who answers, who’s squatting next to the basin as he wipes down the troll girl’s arm and neck with a gentle touch. “She said she was a healer. We were in need of a healer.”

Victor looks up at the shabby building, the lone faucet, the bare room. “I see,” he says.

“A sickness had begun to spread amongst my people,” he continued, his stare downcast. “One I’ve never seen before, one I didn’t know how to contain. We were suffering. Mari showed up and promised to help us, so I gave her a chance. And she saved us. This woman, Isabella. She is the last and only troll affected by the sickness, and I know now she is in safe hands.”

Mari rubs the back of her neck. “You flatter me.”

Yuuri says, pride making his face glow, “I don’t doubt you for a second, Your Majesty. Thank you for believing in my sister.”

“Oh, please, none of that. Call me King JJ.”

“We most certainly will not,” Victor says.

Yuuri gets up from the bed to put a hand on Mari’s shoulder. “You’re doing a lot of good here,” he says, and he squeezes her shoulder with gentle reassurance.

She shrugs. “Someone’s gotta. But really, I didn’t mean to stay here so long.” She gives a pointed look to their surroundings. “I figured staying here longer than intended wouldn’t hurt anybody. So as of now, I’m not going anywhere.”

Victor guesses that leaving empty-handed and happy is better than leaving with a body in tow. With Mari safe and unwilling to leave, this leaves a question Victor isn’t sure he wants to hear the answer of.

“So what do we do now?”

Mari says, simply, “Go home.”

And she can’t know. She can’t know that her reply is the one Victor’s dreading, has been dreading since Yuuri first smiled at him at his cottage, a cottage that looks less like home now that he looks back at it, that is small and lonely in hindsight now that he has found a person he would like to make a home with, to be Victor’s home.

But Victor cannot refute her, as she is right. What else is there to do? So he thins his lips into a pursed grin when Yuuri nods and agrees with her, repeating her words with reverent, exhausted relief as he glances Victor’s way.

“Yeah, let’s go home.”

 

\-----

 

Mari stays at the infirmary and Jean-Jacques goes off to do whatever; Victor has long since stopped pretending to care about anything that comes out the troll king’s mouth. There’s no one to see them off, and it’s only Victor and Yuuri at the entrance of troll territory with the last rays of sun cresting through the dense forest that surrounds them.

“What are you going to do?” Yuuri asks. “Are you going to stay in your woods? Go back to the capital? Or somewhere else entirely?”

Victor hadn’t thought about that. Or actually he had. But what he wants isn’t any of these things, the most sensible options, so he says, “Oh, you know,” and raises his hand, ready to magick a portal to wherever Yuuri wants to go.

But he finds that he can’t commit to finish the action. So he stays like that, Yuuri watching him, his palm facing the shifting shadows of the trees.

“Victor,” Yuuri says.

“Where do you want to go?” Victor asks. “I can’t do this if I don’t know where you want to go.”

He sounds, even to his ears, desperate. It’s stupid. This is stupid. He had known this was going to happen since the beginning. Get it over with, already, by the _gods._

Yuuri says, incredulous at the question, “What do you mean? Where else? I need to go home and explain this whole misunderstanding to my parents.”

“I don’t —” And Victor laughs, at his childishness, his selfishness, his unwillingness to let go. Yuuri disbelieving tone, as if Victor is an idiot for thinking he would be going anywhere else, is the final nail on the coffin. He magicks the portal into existence and steps aside to give Yuuri ample room to walk in. “This will take you to the Katsuki manor. It’s been a pleasure, Yuuri Katsuki: the journey, you company and your companionship — everything. I mean it. Thank you.”

When Yuuri continues to stare at him, the multitude of the portal’s changing hues that project across Yuuri’s face making him look all the more heavenly, Victor asks, “What?”

“You sound as if we’re never gonna see each other again. Which isn’t at all true,” Yuuri points out. “And you still haven’t answered my question. What are you going to do? Or rather, what do you _want_ to do?”

Victor opens his mouth, closes it, then opens it again to lie. “I don’t know.”

“Well, if you’re open to suggestions…” Yuuri trails off, glancing somewhere above Victor's shoulder. “After heading back home, setting everything straight with Mom and Dad...I was thinking about going back to the capital, to see what I can do to, to help. Either with Lilia or the crown, I don’t know; I talked to them and they both told me they were willing to take me in, to train me to become better. But what we did over there — and throughout this entire journey, really — I didn’t feel like I was proving anything to anyone, but that I was doing what I was supposed to do. Like I’ve discovered what I’m supposed to be doing.”

He flicks his gaze back to Victor and Victor, stupidly, lets hope coil in his chest and tighten his spine. “I was thinking. You helped me realize that. Yeah, going around the kingdom and getting ourselves into trouble also helped, but it was you. I wouldn’t have figured it out if it weren’t for you.

“And if you still haven’t decided, that maybe you could...come with me? Test out the waters, see if this is what you wanna do again. And if it isn’t, fine, you could go back to your woods. But if it _is,_ then I’d really like to have you around. I’d _really_ like that.”

Victor swallows, his mouth dry. “Why?”

“Why what?”

“Why do you want me around?”

Yuuri scratches at his temple, lost for words. “Other than the fact that you’re kind of a living legend and would help me earn some much-needed street cred? _Obviously_ because — well, you know.”

“I don’t.”

Yuuri says, “You don’t — by the gods, you don’t know?” and Victor says “What,” and Yuuri says, “Can I kiss you?” and Victor says, _“What.”_

“Can I kiss you,” Yuuri repeats, slower, like Victor hadn’t heard him the first time. “If you don’t want me to, I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to make this awkward. But, uh, if you _do_ — well.”

 _Stupid,_ Victor thinks, _I am so stupid._ He had, like many had done before, underestimated Yuuri, and he’s an absolute fool for doing so. As he mentally curses his stupidity, he says, “Yes,” and Yuuri leans forward to kiss him. They’re both covered in dirt and Yuuri’s arm is still broken, but to Victor Yuuri tastes sweet, like spun sugar, and is the most grounding presence he has ever come across, broken arm or not.

“I might be a bit less perceptive than I thought,” Victor admits when they pull apart. His mind is so wonderfully disoriented by the kiss his concentration slips, causing the portal to flicker behind them and die.

“You’re telling me,” Yuuri says. “So what do you say? Anything’s fine with me. As long as it’s something you want, something you choose.”

Victor has been alive what what feels like eternity, for what may _be_ eternity. And throughout this eternity, he has never felt this lucky before, has never felt this loved. Because that’s what Yuuri is giving him, isn’t it? Victor can see it: in the tender way he smooths down Victor’s upturned collar, in the way he looks at him with crinkled eyes. He has never been given something so sacred before. He doesn’t know what to do with this gift.

“I don’t deserve you,” Victor says, soft.

Yuuri wrinkles his nose at that. “What’s that supposed to mean? Who gets to decide what deserves what? The gods? The universe?” He scoffs and flicks his hand, dismisive, like he’s shooing the mere thought away. “Well, the universe doesn’t care about me, and I don’t care about the universe. You have me, Victor, and there’s nothing cosmic or deserving about it; it’s just the truth.”

He reaches out and runs the tips of his fingers down Victor’s cheekbone, his touch light. “I’m gonna ask again,” he says, teasing, “and I want an answer this time. Where do you want to go?”

Victor allows the truth to leave his mind and be heard. It’s not something to be ashamed of, or something to suppress. It is what it is, and he won’t let it make him doubt anymore.

“I want to go home,” Victor tells him, letting himself lean closer, close enough to both see and feel the way Yuuri breathes in. “Let’s go home, Yuuri. Take me home.”

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> guess wat the moral of the story is lol
> 
> i literally just finished writing this like 3 hrs ago (editting? idk her) so pls excuse the general shittiness and grammar issues that i’m bound to have missed
> 
> i'm not that happy w the end result but i've been struggling through this train wreck for a Long Time and i think i'm ready to let go. this fic was originally planned/written with a different fandom and pairing in mind so sorry if there is some oocness
> 
> if the prose reads off as kinda purple and pretentious, sorry. i’m trying to develop a less plain/straight arrow “writing style” (ugh) and would like to get some feedback as to if i pulled it off
> 
> also even tho most of this isn't actually stated in the narrative... in case you're curious, these are the race&class for the characters:
> 
> Victor: aasimar sorcerer  
> Yuuri: human fighter  
> Mari: human cleric  
> Yuri: human rogue  
> Lillia: half-elf druid  
> Chris: tiefling warlock  
> Phichit: gnome obligatory dnd campaign farm npc/ranger if you wanna give him a class lol  
> Georgi: genasi (water) mage  
> Mila: elf sorceress  
> JJ: forest troll  
> Supreme Overseer and Confidant of the Independent Republic of Borbury: halfling lil bitch
> 
> don't forget to kudos and PLEASEEEE comment what you think!!! also come say hi on [tumblr](http://giftwrappingpaper.tumblr.com/) lol


End file.
